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THE LARGER FAITH 


A NOVEL 


BY 

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JAMES W, COULTER 

1 1 


CHICAGO 

CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY 
56 Fifth Avenub 

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47579 


Copyright 1898 
By James W. Coulter 


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CONTENTS 


Chapter 









Page 

I. 

Dick 








11 

II. 

Young 




• 


* 


18 

III. 

Bob Thompson 








24 

IV. 

Some Western 

Views 






35 

V. 

Darrell 








46 

VI. 

Whitefoot 








59 

VII. 

Ned Long 








70 

VIII. 

David Winter 








90 

IX. 

The Bishop . 








105 

X. 

John Doe . 








115 

XI. 

Two Letters . 








127 

XIL 

Dick Briggs 








136 

XIII. 

Frank Horton 








146 

XIV. 

Making Progress 







157 

XV. 

CoRiNNE Roberts 







167 

XVI. 

The Tramp 








175 

XVII. 

No. 3708 








184 

XVIII. 

The Larger Faith 






194 

XIX. 

Maude . 


, 






205 

XX. 

The Heretic 

, 







215 

XXI. 

A Discovery . 








235 

XXII. 

United 

. 







244 

XXIII. 

The Ranchman 








256 

XXIV. 

Old Friends Meet . 




• 


271 

XXV. 

The Fall of the 

Curtain 




280 




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THE LARGER FAITH 


CHAPTER I. 

DICK. 

Toward the close of a clear day in the latter part 
of September, 1890, a horseman was traveling along 
a trail in the foothills of northern Hew Mexico. Both 
rider and horse were travel-stained and looked jaded. 
The sun was still shining on the hilltops, hut the 
trail was in the deep shadow of the mountains, and 
the rider gazed anxiously over as much of the sur- 
rounding country as was in sight. The view, how- 
ever, was limited. The road seemed to be in a large, 
bowl-shaped depression surrounded by mountains. 

The traveler was apparently about twenty-six or 
twenty-seven years old, of medium height, with light 
hair, blue eyes, a blond mustache and a beard of one 
or two weeks’ growth of the same color. It was plain 
to be seen he was not of that country. The way he 
sat his horse, his clothes, his hat, his gloves, the way 


12 


THE LARGER FAITH 


he looked at the surrounding landscape — all pro- 
claimed him a ^^tenderfoot.” 

He had started that morning to ride across the 
country to the little town and railroad station of Tres 
Piedras. It was fifty miles by the road, hut he had 
been told that he could save ten miles by following a 
trail to which he was directed. 

He could only guess how far it was to his destina- 
tion. It seemed to him that he had already traveled 
full forty miles, but being unused to riding horse- 
back, and the country traversed being strange to him, 
he was uncertain on this point. Besides, he was not 
sure that he had kept the right trail. 

Despite his weariness and anxiety the young man 
could not help being impressed with the awe-inspiring 
grandeur of the natural scenery through which he 
was passing. For the time he ceased to think of him- 
self and journey as he gazed in admiration at the 
mountain in the west, the sharp outline which it pre- 
sented against the fast-receding light making a clear- 
cut silhouette. 

While his attention was thus withdrawn the horse 
shied, sprung suddenly to one side, and the rider, taken 
wholly by surprise, fell violently to the ground. With 
a snort the frightened horse galloped off up the trail, 
and the rider, as he raised himself, caught sight of 
some animal making off through the underbrush and 
small trees which skirted the trail. 


DICK 


18 


The young man had no sooner got to his feet than 
he sunk to the ground with a groan. In the fall he 
had so badly injured his right ankle that he could not 
touch his foot to the earth without the greatest pain. 

For a few minutes his suffering excluded thoughts 
of all other things; then he cursed the horse which 
had thrown him, the animal that scared the horse, 
and the ill luck that had brought him into that coun- 
try and subjected him to such an accident. 

After a little time the gravity of his situation sud- 
denly presented itself to his mind. Night was coming 
on rapidly, as it does in the mountains, and there was 
in the air the icy chill which at that altitude comes 
with the first shades of evening. Alone and disabled 
in a strange country, with no protection from the in- 
creasing cold save the clothes he wore, prevented by 
his injury from keeping warm by exercise, he shud- 
dered at the thought that his earthly career was very 
near its end. It seemed to him horrible that he 
should die that way. 

There had been a time in the young man’s life 
when, under similar circumstances, he would have 
appealed to a higher power for help, but he repressed 
the thought of doing so, partly as being a weakness 
and partly because he felt he was not in a position to 
claim anything at the hands of Providence. He was 
wondering whether he could possibly get together 
some fuel and make a fire to keep from freezing, when 


14 


THE LABGEB FAITH 


through the twilight he saw some one approaching 
along the trail up which the horse had run. 

In the gathering darkness but little more could be 
seen of the approaching figure than that it was that 
of a tall man wearing a broad-brimmed slouch hat. 
As he drew near, the young man, with the help of a 
stick, managed to rise. 

“Good evening,” he said, eagerly, feeling tremen- 
dously relieved at the prospect of human aid. 

“Good evening, sir,” replied the stranger, in a voice 
which had about it that indefinable quality which al- 
ways denotes culture. 

“I was thrown from my horse a little while ago and 
I’ve got a badly hurt ankle,” said the young man. 

“I caught your horse,” replied the stranger, “and 
thought the rider wasn’t far away, as the saddle was 
stiU warm.” 

“I was riding carelessly — wasn’t paying any atten- 
tion to the horse, and he shied at some animal and 
jumped clear from under me,” said the young man. 

“Well,” said the stranger, “the first thing to do is 
to get you to my place. It’s about a mile from here. 
Do you think you can walk, with my help and a 
stick?” 

“I don’t believe I can,” replied the young man. “I 
can’t bear a pound on this ankle.” 

“Then I’ll bring your horse — or, better still, I’ll 
bring one of my burros,” said the stranger. “He’ll be 


DICE 


15 


easier for you to get on and off. Fll be back as soon 
as possible/’ saying which he departed in the direc- 
tion from which he had come. 

When the stranger had gone, the pain which the 
young man’s injury caused him, together with the sud- 
den relaxation from the mental strain caused by his 
fear, brought on a violent nervous chill. He shook 
so that the added pain in his injured leg made him 
groan again, and his teeth rattled. From time to 
time he broke into profanity of an aimless kind. 

Growing calmer, he reflected upon the very nar- 
row margin, in time, which may separate strength and 
happiness on the one side from helplessness and ex^ 
treme misery on the other. He began to wonder if 
some accident had befallen his rescuer to prevent his 
return. Listening intently, he could not hear a sound 
of any kind. The stillness was oppressive; it was a 
silence that could be felt. 

In his impatience it seemed to him the stranger 
had been gone fully two hours, when at last he re- 
turned, followed by one of those patient little animals, 
the burden bearers of the Eocky mountains. Having 
turned the burro around and stopped it close beside 
where the young man sat, he said, cheerily: “Did I 
seem to be a good while coming?” And with- 
out heeding the young man’s admission that the 
time had seemed long, he added: “Let me help you 


16 


THE LARGES FAITH 


up. Now, just swing your wounded leg over his back 
and we’ll soon have you in a better place.” 

The young man hesitated. ^‘Are you sure he’s safe 
without halter or bridle?” he asked. ‘T don’t want 
to get this ankle hurt any more.” 

‘Terfectly,” answered the stranger. ‘^You can de- 
pend on having no further accident on his account. 
Eh, Dick?” 

It was no trouble to mount. The burro was so 
small that when mounted the young man’s feet al- 
most touched the ground. The stranger started along 
the trail and the burro followed like a dog, watching 
every motion of his master. In descending to the 
crossing of a little stream the stranger said, ‘‘Steady, 
Dick!” and the burro, seeming to understand, moved 
slowly and with the utmost care. Proceeding in this 
way they arrived in time at the door of a log cabin, 
where the stranger helped the young man to dismount 
and enter the house, and seated him in an arm-chair 
near a cook stove in which a fire was burning. Strik- 
ing a match he lighted a lamp, and then turned to the 
young man, saying: “Now, let’s take a look at that 
leg.” 

An inspection of the injured ankle showed it to be 
badly swollen. The young man noticed that in ex- 
amining it the stranger’s touch was as firm and gentle 
as that of any surgeon. After passing his hands ca- 
ressingly over the swollen part of the leg, he grasped 


DICK 


17 


the end of the foot and moved it slowly, first up and 
down, then from side to side. 

^‘There are no bones broken/’ he said, ‘^but the ten- 
dons and muscles have been badly wrenched. A hot- 
water bath is the best thing for it.” 

A steaming tea-kettle was on the stove. Emptying 
this into a clean wooden bucket of the kind used in 
packing fine-cut tobacco, the stranger added some cold 
water and then caused the young man to immerse his 
foot and ankle in it. He then placed on the stove a 
small pan of milk, which, when heated, he poured into 
a glass and handed to the young man, saying: ‘‘Sip 
this as hot as you can stand it. It will get away with 
that chill.” 

While the young man bathed his ankle and sipped 
the hot milk his host got from an adjoining room 
some muslin which he tore into strips. These pieces 
he sewed together until he had one strip two or three 
yards in length which he formed into a compact roll. 

At this time a scraping noise was heard at the door, 
which, being opened, disclosed the head of the burro 
with ears set forward and an expectant look on his^ 
face. 

“Hello, Dick!” said the stranger. “Waiting for 
something?” 

And getting some bread crusts from the cupboard 
he fed them to the burro, patting his neck and say- 
ing: “Good boy, Dick.” 


CHAPTEK II. 


YOUNG. 

When the sprained ankle had been bathed in hot 
water for a time, the stranger, having first applied 
some liniment, proceeded to bandage it tightly with 
the strip of muslin; then slitting the young man’s 
sock from the top, he drew it gently on, got an old 
cloth slipper which he put on the foot, and said: 
‘‘How does it feel now?” 

“Much better, thank you,” said the young man. 

But few words had passed between them up to this 
time, the attention of the one being taken up by his 
hurt, and that of the other in trying to render assist- 
ance. The stranger had not yet taken off his hat. 
He now took it off and hung it up, saying, “I think 
we’d better have something to eat. It’s nearly eight 
o’clock,” glancing at a clock which ticked on the 
wall. 

As the young man nursed his injured ankle and 
thought of spending the night on the mountainside, 
he shuddered and said: 

“You’ve done me a great service, Mr. ” 


YOUNG 


19 


‘TToung/^ replied the stranger, answering the 
young man’s implied interrogatory. ‘‘Fm glad to 
have been able to be of help to you. You are a 
stranger here?” 

“Yes,” replied the other. “My name is Darrell. I 
live in Ohio, and am here for a few weeks on business. 
I started to ride across the country to Tres Piedras, 
and was directed to take a trail for a short cut.” 

“The trails through here are a little hard to fol- 
low, for persons unaccustomed to them,” said Young. 

“How far is this from Tres Piedras?” asked Dar- 
rell. 

“About twenty miles,” answered Young. 

A look of annoyance crossed Darrell’s face, which 
Young noticed. “If you want a physician,” said he, 
“the nearest one is thirty miles down the railroad 
from Tres Piedras. I could get him here by about 
noon to-morrow. I think, though, that all your ankle 
needs is time to get well.” 

“I don’t think I need a doctor,” said Darrell, “but 
I’m quartered here on you against my will, and mak- 
ing you trouble.” 

“Be easy on that score,” answered Young. “You’ll 
be no trouble to me, and I think with time and pa- 
tience your leg will be ready for use again.” 

So saying, he took off the jumper he had been wear- 
ing, washed his hands and set about preparing sup- 
per. 


20 


THE LARGER PAITH 


For the first time Darrell had an opportunity to ob- 
serve his new-made acquaintance. In person he was 
tall and well-made, though somewhat slender. His 
gray eyes were set wide apart and overhung by a full, 
high forehead. The nose was straight, but a trifle 
too long and a shade too large at the lower end for 
a Grecian model. The jaws inclined to be square, and 
the chin, extending forward, though not obtrusively 
prominent, had a well-defined indentation up and 
down the center. Except for a heavy, untrained 
brown mustache which hid the mouth, the face was 
clean shaven, or had been within three or four days. 
The face was tanned brown, except the forehead, 
which, by comparison, seemed unusually white. A 
full growth of dark brown hair completed the picture. 
In age he might have been anywhere from thirty- 
five to forty. The expresssion of the face was calm, 
though some little lines about it give Darrell the im- 
pression that it was the face of a man who had suf- 
fered. 

Darrell prided himself on being something of a 
physiognomist and reader of character. He had first 
been struck with the peculiar character of Young’s 
voice. While not especially low or subdued, it was a 
quiet, musical, cultured voice. He now noted that 
Young, in moving about preparing the meal, had a 
certain precision of movement and sureness of touch, 
and before supper was ready he felt a degree of inter- 


YOUNG 


21 


est in his companion which was entirely unconnected 
with the service being rendered to himself. 

‘‘That’s a strong character,” he said to himself, 
“and a refined one. I wonder how the devil he comes 
to be living in this God-forsaken region.” 

Supper being ready. Young set the table directly in 
front of the chair where Darrell sat, so that he could 
eat without moving. The meal was plain, but every- 
thing was well cooked and palatable. During the 
meal Young was quietly attentive to the wants of his 
guest, and Darrell noticed that he handled his knife 
and fork as people do in civilized communities. 

When the meal was ended. Young cleared the table, 
washed the dishes and tidied up the room with the 
same quiet celerity of movement which Darrell had 
before observed. Then going to the door he sounded 
a long, shrill blast on a dog-whistle. In two or three 
minutes a dog of the collie shepherd variety bounded 
into the room, expresssed his fondness for Young, and 
then suddenly stopped and looked inquiringly, first 
at Darrell, then at his master. “A friend of mine, 
George,” said Young. The dog wagged his tail and 
looked knowingly at Darrell. “Here’s your supper,” 
said Young, setting down a generous plateful of scraps 
from the supper table. After eating, the dog laid his 
head on Young’s knee and gazed up at him. “Have 
enough supper?” inquired Young, as he stroked the 
dog’s head. For reply, George wagged his tail. 


22 


THE LARGEE FAITH 


^^You talk to your animals as if they understood 
you/’ remarked Darrell. 

‘‘A habit Fve got into from being alone with them/’ 
replied Young. “They expect it from me. Besides, 
they do understand much more than they get credit 
for.” 

The latter statement seemed to he verified, in the 
case of the dog, at least; for when a few minutes later 
Young said in his ordinary tone, “Now you may go 
back to the sheep, George,” the dog at once went to 
the door, and on being let out trotted off contentedly, 
waving a good-night with his tail as he vanished in the 
darkness. 

“Do you live alone here, Mr. Young?” asked Dar- 
rell. 

“Yes, except for such company as you have seen,” 
replied Young. 

“How far off are your nearest neighbors?” 

“There’s one ranchman, a German, about six miles 
up the creek; there are no others much nearer than 
Tres Piedras,” replied Young. 

“I should think it would he lonesome,” remarked 
Darrell. 

“I don’t find it so,” said Young. “I have work to 
do, and enjoy reading. Then,” he added, with a 
slight smile in his eyes, “I try to keep on good terms 
with myself. A good deal depends on that.” 

Darrell glanced about the room and saw no signs 


YOUNG 


23 


of any reading matter, save some newspapers spread 
out on shelves. However, he made no comment on 
this, but inquired: ^‘Are you from the east?’’ 

‘^Hew York is my native state,” answered Young. 
Then, after a slight pause, he added: 

“Perhaps you are tired after your day’s ride and 
would like to retire. Whenever you wish, I will show 
you where you are to sleep.” 

Darrell expressing a desire to go at once, Young 
handed him a cane, and, supporting him on the right 
side, conducted him into an adjoining room. This 
room was the same size as the one they had left, being 
about sixteen feet in length by twelve in width. The 
floor was almost covered with fur rugs made of wolf 
and coyote skins. There were two beds, and the cov- 
ers of the one to which Darrell was conducted were 
neatly turned down. 

“You may find the covers a little heavy at first, but 
you’ll need them before morning,” said Young. “If 
you want anything in the night, don’t hesitate to 
call me.” 

Darrell fell asleep thanking his stars that he was 
there instead of spending the night on the mountain- 
side, and wondering who his host could be and what 
led him to live alone in that out-of-the-way place. 


CHAPTER HI. 


BOB THOMPSON". 

Darrell slept soundly, and when he awoke the next 
morning Young had already risen and was gone. 
While he was putting on his clothes, Young appeared 
with a pair of roughly made crutches and saluted him 
with: ^^How are you this morning?’’ 

“First-rate, thank you, except that I can’t hear any 
weight on this ankle,” answered Darrell. 

“Well, we can’t expect that for a few days,” saia 
Young. “How are these for length?” 

The crutches being a little too long. Young soon 
remedied the defect by cutting off the ends, and then 
said: “Breakfast is ready whenever you are.” 

Having declined an offer of hot water, Darrell 
W'ashed his hands and face at a home-made washstand, 
noticing that while everything was rough the soap 
was of good quality and the towel large and clean. 

After breakfast, during which some desultory con- 
versation had taken place. Young said, “I shall have 
to leave you for a part of the day, and I may not re^ 
turn till toward evening. You’ll find a cold lunch in 


BOB THOMPSON 


25 


the cupboard here, and if you feel like cooking some- 
thing or making coifee, the materials are there. If 
you care to read, you may be able to find something in 
here that will interest you,” saying which Young 
opened a door leading to a room which Darrell had 
not yet entered. 

This room was about twenty feet square and was 
constructed of logs; it was, in fact, a separate log 
cabin built against the main house, thus forming an 
L. There was no ceiling, this room, like the rest of 
the house, being covered by a substantial shingle roof 
laid on heavy rafters. As Darrell entered, he saw at 
the end opposite the door a large open fireplace in 
which a fire was burning, and at the side of which 
was a large pile of wood. The fioor, excepting that 
part near the fire, was covered with coarse matting, 
over which were distributed a number of rugs like 
those in the bedroom, with the addition of two moun- 
tain-lion skins, dressed with the heads on. 

At one side of the room, not far from the fireplace, 
stood a fiat-topped writing desk; next to this was a 
bookcase, or rather a set of shelves, containing about 
two hundred books, nearly all in cheap bindings. On 
the opposite side was a couch completely covered with 
gray woolen blankets, under which at one end had 
been placed some sort of a pillow, forming a head rest. 
Near the center of the room stood a square table, evi- 
dently of home manufacture — as was all the rest of 


26 


THE LARGER FAITH 


the furniture, save the writing desk and the chairs, 
including one big easy chair. Notwithstanding the 
entire lack of ornamentation, the room looked com- 
fortable and inviting. 

‘‘This is where I loaf, when I have time-” said 
Young, as Darrell surveyed the room. 

Approaching the table, Darrell was surprised, al- 
most startled, to see, besides a few well-worn volumes, 
several late copies of the standard magazines and a 
number of newspapers, including the last number of 
the New York Sunday Sun. His face expressing 
something of the astonishment he felt, he glanced at 
Young, who smiled and said simply, “Make yourself 
as comfortable as you can till I return,” and with a 
nod left the house. 

“Well!” said Darrell to himself, “there are some 
items of interest in the wilds of New Mexico besides 
the climate and the mountains.” 

Mechanically picking up and opening a book, his 
eye fell on this passage, which was marked: 

“Sweet are the uses of adversity. 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous. 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.” 

Turning over the leaves, he saw that many passages 
were marked, and yet his mind returned to the first 
one he had seen, as being possibly the key to the char- 


BOB THOMPSON 


27 


acter of his host, in whom he began to feel an unusual 
degree of interest. 

Glancing through a window, he saw a range of 
mountains glistening in the morning sunlight, which 
suggested to him to go out and take a look at his 
surroundings and breathe the fresh mountain air. As 
he passed out of the door Young was just starting 
aw^y on a gray racker, and he stood looking after 
man and horse until a turn in the road hid them from 
view and the clicking pit-a-pat-a, pit-a-pat-a of the 
horse’s hoofs died out in the distance. 

Looking around him, he saw that the cabin was situ- 
ated on a knoll in a valley which seemed to be shut in 
on all sides by mountains. About the house was a 
natural grove of large pine trees. At a little distance 
were some corrals, stables and other outbuildings. A 
little farther off were two or three fields inclosed by 
wire fences. But for these few things which men are 
pleased to term improvements, the country as far as 
the eye could reach seemed to be in a state of primeval 
grandeur. As he gazed at the mountains, some of 
which seemed to be very near, but were really three 
or four miles distant, he was impressed with a sense 
of magnitude, and he wondered whether such sur- 
roundings were not calculated to enlarge and elevate 
the minds of those living within their influence. 
There is a massive greatness, a solemn grandeur in the 
sight of mountains with their peaks clothed in per- 


28 


THE LARGER FAITH 


petual snow which to the dullest mind is suggestive of 
infinity. 

Darrell’s musings were cut short by the arrival of 
a man riding an undersized, bony-looking horse. The 
man was roughly dressed, wore a low-crowned, broad- 
brimmed hat and a pair of the high-heeled boots 
which had been in vogue twenty-five or thirty years 
before. There was a coil of rope attached to the 
pommel of the saddle. Dismounting, the rider threw 
the bridle-rein over the horse’s head, walked toward 
Darrell with a peculiar, mincing gait, and saluted him 
with: ‘‘Morning.” 

“Good morning,” replied Darrell. 

“Young about?” inquired the stranger. 

“No,” answered Darrell, “he went away a little 
while ago.” 

“Say when he’d be back?” 

“He seemed uncertain, and said he might not re- 
turn till afternoon.” 

“I’m down on my luck,” said the stranger. “You 
a friend of Young’s?” 

“Only since last night. I had a fall from a horse, 
hurt my leg so I couldn’t walk, and Mr. Young 
brought me here. I suppose I’ll have to stay here a 
few days.” 

“You might’ve found lots worse places to stay at,” 
remarked the stranger. 


BOB THOMPSON 


29 


"Yes, IVe already found that out,” assented Dar- 
rell. 

"Well,” said the stranger, "I want to get something 
to eat and feed my horse before I go back, anyway; 
so I’ll put him in the stable and wait awhile.” 

When he returned, the two proceeded to the house. 
The stranger seemed very much at home. As they 
entered the sitting room, or the room where Young 
said he did his loafing, the stranger remarked: 
"Young’s got about the nicest layout in this part o’ 
the country.” 

"Yes,” said Darrell, "I was surprised at some things 
here. Who is this Mr. Young?” 

"He’s just Bill Young, and I reckon about as 
square a boy as was ever wrapped in the same amount 
of hide,” replied the stranger. 

"How long has he lived here?” 

"Goin’ on four years.” 

r "Do you know where he is from or what business 
he was in before he came here?” asked Darrell. 

"No, nor nobody else ’round here knows, and we 
don’t care. You see, it ain’t exactly the fashion about 
here to ask a man many questions about himself. 
What he wants to tell about himself, he tells, and what 
he don’t want to tell, he keeps. Anyhow, people here 
don’t bank much on what a man was before he come; 
it’s what he is here that counts.” After a short pause 


30 


THE LARGER FAITH 


he added, as if he thought his preceding statement 
demanded it: 

“My name’s Thompson, Bob Thompson — I guess it 
was Eobert once, but nohody’d know who you meant 
if you spoke of Eobert Thompson ’round here. I'm 
punchin’ cows for the H. 0. outfit about forty miles 
below here, and I took a day oil to come and see 
Young. I ain’t seen him since the round-up last 
spring.” 

“My name,” replied his companion, “ is John Dar- 
rell; I live in Ohio and am here for a short time on 
business.” 

“I seen you wasn’t a western man,” said Thompson. 

“No, I’m what you call a tenderfoot.” 

“Well, there’s tenderfeet and tenderfeet. We all 
thought Young was a tenderfoot when he come here, 
but after the first round-up he was with us nobody 
ever called him a tenderfoot no more.” 

“He took to your ways pretty readily, did he?” 

“No, he didn’t take any to our ways; he just kept 
on his own way; only none of us had knowed him.” 

Being urged to tell how they got to know him, 
Thompson said: 

“This was how we come to take a tumble to our- 
selves: From the time we started on the round-up 
there was bad blood between Bill Doolin, foreman of 
the T.E. ranch, and Jack McGonigle, that was workin’ 
for the English outfit out west of the T. E. I never 


BOB THOMPSON 


31 


knowed what was between ’em, but we was lookin’ for 
trouble — for Jack’s a stayer, and Bill had several 
notches on his gun and could get it out and shoot in 
about two seconds less time than it takes some peo- 
ple to wink. Young rode with Bill some, and when 
we’d been out three or four days Bill says to me; 
That’s about as decent a tenderfoot as I’ve run up 
against for some time. He looks to me like a good 
one ’nd a stayer, but he don’t carry no gun.’ Well, 
one evening when we’d been out five or six days, we’d 
just got to camp when the trouble broke out. I was 
standin’ right near Bill and Jack was walkin’ away 
about twenty feet, when Bill said something to him. 
Jack turned ’round ’nd a few words passed between 
’em and both men reached for their guns. I was just 
goin’ to get out of range when I seen Young cornin’ 
up to Bill, square in front ’nd right between the two 
guns. He lays one hand on Bill’s shoulder, takes hold 
of the gun with the other, and says, quiet-like and 
smilin’; ‘Let me take this, old son; I’ll hand it to you 
later.’ We all thought there’d be a dead tenderfoot 
right there. Bill looked at him a minute and then — 
I’m damned if he didn’t let go that gun ’nd turn 
’round ’nd walk off. I’d ’ve bet a year’s pay against 
ten cents that nobody in the territory could ’ve made 
Bill Doolin give up his gun, ’specially when there 
was a gun-play on; but Young done it, and ever since 
then Bill would go through fire ’nd water for him. 


32 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


"nd the boys that was lookin' on 'nd seen it wouldn't 
be far behind him." 

‘‘Why didn't Doolin shoot him?" asked Darrell, 
more for the purpose of hearing Thompson talk than 
because he had anything to say. 

“I asked Bill that once, a good while after, 'nd he 
says: ‘I just looked into them eyes of his 'nd I didn't 
want to kill nobody.' " 

“I would have taken Mr. Young to be a man of 
some temper," suggested Darrell. 

“It's there, you bet!" replied Thompson, “but he 
don't often show it. The only times I've ever heard 
of him gettin' mad was when somebody or some am 
imal was gettin' the worst of it. He can't stand it to 
see anything hurt. I thought he was goin' to scrap 
once with a cowpuncher that was kickin' his broncho. 
I guess there would 've been trouble mighty quick, 
too, but the fellow took a look at him, like Bill Doolin 
did, and dropped it right there. A little while after 
Young says to the fellow: ‘Excuse me for speakin' 
as I did, but I can't stand that sort of thing. It’s my 
weak point.' The cowpuncher wasn't bad, either, for 
he says to Young: ‘Stay with it; you’re all right!' ” 

After some further talk about cowboys and their 
life, Darrell asked: 

“Does Young stay with the boys when they're out 
for a little time?" 

“You bet you he stays plenty all the time. He 


BOB THOMPSON^ 


33 


don’t never drink himself, though, hut he takes care 
of any of the hoys he’s with if they get too much. 
Some of us was up at Tres Piedras one day at old 
Vigil’s place. There was a cowpuncher from Texas 
in the crowd, that didn’t know Young. He was 
spendin’ his money pretty free, like the rest of the 
hoys, and after we’d had several rounds he sees Young 
with the hoys and says to him: ‘Here, pardner, you 
hain’t set ’em up yet.’ Young walks up to the har 
and says: ‘What’ll you have, hoys?’ When we’d 
named our drinks, which was mostly all whisky. 
Young says: ‘I’ll take a cigar, please.’ ‘Ho you 
don’t,’ says Texas, ‘you’ll take a drink of straight 
whisky.’ ‘Thanks, I don’t care to drink,’ says Young. 
‘But you’ve got to take a drink,’ says Texas. ‘Ho, he 
hain’t got to do anything,’ says Bill Doolin, hreakin’ 
in. Texas knowed Bill all right ’nd he only says: 
‘Why can’t the tenderfoot take a drink with us?’ ‘He 
ain’t no tenderfoot,’ says Bill, ‘ ’nd if you want to get 
out of here with a whole hide you’ll drop that, sud- 
den.’ Texas knowed it was either shoot or quit, ’nd 
didn’t say nothin’. Young only smiled and says: ‘I’ve 
tried both ways, hoys, and I find I’m better without 
whisky. I doubt if it helps anybody.’ Do you know, 
pardner, them few words done more good than a tem- 
perance sermon? I haven’t taken a drink since, ’nd 
several of the other hoys let up a good deal on their 
drinkin’ right from that time.” 


34 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


Noon having arrived, Thompson remarked that it 
was time to get something to eat, and proceeded in the 
preparation of a meal as if he were the sole proprietor 
of the place. After dinner he washed the dishes and 
put everything in order. During the next two hours 
they talked on a variety of subjects. Darrell noticed 
that Thompson was not voluble or enthusiastic when 
speaking of himself as he had been when Young was 
the subject. Indeed, he was reticent and modest, 
withal, when asked about his personal experiences. 
When at three o’clock he remarked that he would 
have to see Young some other time, Darrell had con- 
ceived a liking for him. There was about him a 
straightforward sturdiness and a freedom from con- 
ventionality which gave Darrell a new idea of cow- 
boys. 

Thompson being ready to mount his horse, the two 
men shook hands, Darrell saying: ^T hope to meet 
you again, Mr. Thompson. The day has passed very 
pleasantly for me.” 

‘‘Well, we’re likely to run up against each other 
’most any time. You ought to live in the west,” was 
the answer. 

Which was more complimentary to a stranger than 
Bob Thompson often permitted himself to be. 


CHAPTER IV. 


SOME WESTERN VIEWS. 

Young returned about five o’clock. When he had 
taken the saddle and bridle off his horse he threw 
over him a heavy blanket, though Darrell could not 
see that the animal was at all heated. 

‘‘Do you turn him out to pasture that way?” asked 
Darrell, seeing the horse unfastened. 

“He’ll not go away till I take it off,” answered 
Young. “He expects some grain after his work and 
will stay till he gets it.” 

When told of Thompson’s visit Young expresssed 
his regret at being absent, and added: “He’s a dia- 
mond in the rough. You’ll like him if you get ac- 
quainted with him.” 

“We got somewhat acquainted to-day, and I already 
like him,” said Darrell. “By the way, he seems to 
have a very good opinion of you, Mr. Young.” 

“Bob has a great deal of loyalty in his make-up,” re- 
plied Young, “and that is about as fine a quality, and 
about as rare, as any in human nature.” 

They spent the evening in the sitting room, where, 


36 


THE LARGER FAITH 


before the cheerful fire, they looked over the news- 
papers and magazines, occasionally conversing on 
some matter treated of in the periodicals. In relating 
some personal experiences Darrell incidentally men- 
tioned that at the time of the occurrence he was 
smoking. 

‘^Do you want a smoke now?” asked Young. ‘‘I 
can fit you out if you smoke a pipe.” 

Darrell intimating that a smoke would he especially 
grateful to him just then. Young produced some plain 
pipes with reed stems, and a box containing about a 
pound of tobacco. 

‘‘I didn’t know you used the weed,” remarked Dar- 
rell. 

“I used to smoke a good deal,” replied Young. 

^^Did you swear off?” asked Darrell. 

“Oh, no; it was rather a case of wear off. I don’t 
care much for it now. However, I’ll fill a pipe and 
smoke with you for company.” 

By bedtime Darrell felt that he was beginning to 
get acquainted with Young. The latter was not at all 
cold or reserved. He talked freely and at times 
laughed heartily. His conversation was interesting, 
but to Darrell’s disappointment he said nothing about 
himself; and Darrell couldn’t help feeling there was 
much that he left unsaid. 

At the end of ten days Darrell’s ankle had so far 
recovered that he could begin to use it a little. Dur- 


SOME WESTERN VIEWS 


37 


ing this time they spent every evening and sometimes 
part of the day in the sitting room, and had many 
talks on a variety of topics. Darrell noticed that 
whenever Young had work to do he went about it as 
if it were a pleasure to him, whether it were feeding 
his stock, repairing a fence or washing dishes. One 
evening about a week after Darrell’s arrival. Young 
said to him, ‘‘You will he needing a change of un- 
derclothing by this time. I’m going to wash in the 
morning, and if you’ll put these on I’ll wash yours,” 
at the same time laying out on a chair a set of his 
own underclothes of coarse woolen material. 

“I don’t like to have you wash my clothes for me, 
Mr. Young,” said Darrell. 

“Why?” said Young, rather abruptly and with a 
searching look at Darrell. 

“Well,” said Darrell, somewhat disconcerted by 
both the look and the sudden question, “I’d rather 
get some one else to do it.” 

“Why?” repeated Young, gazing steadily at him. 

“Well, the fact is it seems to me you are above 
doing that kind of work, for somebody else, at any 
rate.” 

“Nobody is above doing any work necessary to he 
done,” replied Young, “and nobody has any right to 
ask another to do for him, for pay or otherwise, any- 
thing which he is unwilling to do for himself or for 
another,” 


38 


THE LARGEK FAITH 


“Isn’t that a rather unconventional view to take 
of it?” suggested Darrell. 

‘‘Perhaps. Did it ever occur to you that conven- 
tionality in one form and another lies at the root of 
most of the troubles of mankind?” 

“No, I had never thought of it in that light,” said 
Darrell. 

The next day Young did his washing and ironing as 
he did everything else, thoroughly and quickly and as 
if he enjoyed that particular kind of work. As Dar- 
rell looked on, he was reminded of something he had 
once read about the dignity of labor, and the thought 
crossed his mind that it was being exemplified before 
him. 

One day, on looking at a magazine picture of a num^ 
her of men engaged at work of a very arduous kind, 
Darrell remarked that it was a pity man was doomed 
to get his living by the sweat of his brow. 

“I do not think so,” replied Young. “Labor is a 
blessing, not a curse. It is necessary to man’s developv 
ment, physical, intellectual and spiritual, that he 
should work. The race would die out, cease to exist, 
within a few generations, if it were not necessary foi 
man to work in order to live.” 

‘'But ten hours a day of this kind of work is kill- 
ing,” said Darrell. 

“That is man’s fault — the fault of wrong condi- 
tions which men, organized as society, have allowed 


SOME WESTERN VIEWS 


39 


to obtain. Overwork, like any other excess, is hurtful. 
If voluntary, it injures him who does it; if involun- 
tary, it injures both him who does the work and him 
who causes it to be done; in either case it is an injury 
to society at large. By the way, you use the popular 
misquotation. The reading is: Tn the sweat of thy 
face shalt thou eat bread.’ ” "1 

At another time the conversation turned on the 
subject of environment as affecting the progress and 
welfare of mankind. Darrell said he thought peo- 
ple’s surroundings had a greater influence on their 
lives than heredity, and proceeded to state some rea- 
sons in support of his view. 

^^Yes,” assented Young, "environment is an im- 
portant factor, but every person, to a large extent, 
creates his own environment.” 

"Of course,” replied Darrell, "most people can do 
much to better their surroundings, but a great many 
are so situated that they can neither improve the con- 
ditions by which they are surrounded nor get away 
from them. Take the poor in the large cities, for in- 
stance.” 

"Yes, but environment in its broad sense includes 
the spiritual and mental conditions by which we are 
surrounded, and they are of far more importance in 
producing happiness or misery than physical condi- 
tions.” 

"I don’t think so at all,” said Darrell. "Why, men- 


40 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


tal and spiritual conditions (if there is any such thing 
as a spiritual condition) are the result of physical sur-* 
roundings and conditions.” 

“I look upon that as a profound error,” said Young. 
“Are not most of the joys and sorrows of mankind 
merely mental and not physical joys and sorrows — in 
other words, imaginary? A much greater number of 
people have felt pleasure from anticipation, expecta- 
tion and hope than from realization; a vastly greater 
number have suffered more from fear of occurrences 
than from the occurrences themselves. It isn^t what 
we possess, hut what we hope to get, that makes us feel 
rich. In the great majority of cases it is not what we 
have to bear to-day, but what we fear we shall have 
to bear to-morrow, that makes us miserable. All ob- 
servation disproves your theory that mental and spir- 
itual conditions are the result of physical surround- 
ings. You may satisfy every desire of a man’s body, 
make every physical condition surrounding him just 
as he would have it, and he may still be an unhappy 
man. On the other hand, satisfy a man’s spiritual 
nature and you will have at once a happy and con- 
tented man.” 

“There’s some truth in what you say as to mental 
conditions,” said Darrell, “but your views on the spir- 
itual condition of man, as affecting his physical wel- 
fare and happiness, seem to me, if you’ll pardon my 
saying it, to be what old Bill Allen of Ohio would 


SOME WESTERN VIEWS 


41 


call damned barren ideality.’ I can’t see what spir- 
ituality has to do with existing physical conditions, or 
with man’s welfare in this life.” 

‘‘That is the fundamental error of mankind,” re- 
plied Young. “There is no life but this life, and 
spirituality has everything to do with it, for the very 
simple reason, to my mind, that the spirit or soul is the 
real person of which the body is a mere incident. We 
speak of the spiritual side of man’s nature, as if the 
spirit were an incident to the man. The spirit or soul 
is the real man and controls the body and its sur- 
roundings. This, as it seems to me, is a natural fact — 
a fundamental law of man’s nature. So long as we 
overlook or ignore this truth and seek for happiness 
in changes of physical conditions — changes of what 
we call environment — just so long we shall fail to 
find what we seek, for we are violating the law of our 
nature.” 

“But spirituality, as you would call it, doesn’t thrive 
in povert}^ squalor and dirt,” said Darrell. 

“That is the appearance,” replied Young, “which, 
as in so many cases, we accept for the truth. The real 
truth is that poverty, squalor and dirt do not thrive 
with spirituality.” 

“Still, you will admit that these things exist as 
facts. Now, if they are to be changed by spirituality, 
how are men to be made spiritual?” 

“God — or, if you please, nature — has don^ that,” 


42 


THE LARGER FAITH 


replied Young. “Every man is by nature a spiritual 
being. When we recognize this we at once perceive 
our true relationship to nature, to God. Light is all 
that mankind need.’^ 

“I suppose you’d give them this needed light by 
getting them to be religious,” said Darrell. 

“All men are by nature religious,” replied Young. 
“The Spirit of God is in every human being. It is 
the very life principle iil each of us. Religion is sim- 
ply the intuitive knowledge of our true relationship 
to God — the letting this life act in the natural way.” 

“Do you expect to see changes brought about, then, 
in political and economic conditions — ^in the environ- 
ment of the race — by the development of man’s spir- 
itual nature?” asked Darrell. 

“With perfect confidence,” replied Young. “It is 
the only hope for the human race, and I am an opti- 
mist. I believe there is a spiritual awakening among 
mankind generally at this time which has not been 
equaled since the Christian era. This is not confined 
to any one part of the globe. All men seem to me 
to be coming more and more rapidly into the light.” 

“And the result in your opinion will be ?” 

“Universal happiness — the millennium,” answered 
Young. “Not in a day, or a year, but ultimately. To 
many, that time is now here, and the number is rap- 
idly increasing.” 

“I wish I could share your optimism,” said Darrell. 


SOME WESTERN VIEWS 


43 


After a pause he continued: ‘^You said one thing 
which puzzles me. You speak of the Spirit of God 
being our life principle, and yet you said there is no 
life but this. Do you not believe in the immortality 
of the soul?” 

“Most assuredly,” replied Young. ‘'My idea is that 
this life goes on eternally — that no person dies, but 
simply continues to live.” 

“Oh, I see,” said Darrell. “In that sense I un- 
derstand you.” 

This was the longest serious talk they had had on 
any subject, and Darrell felt more than ever inter- 
ested to know who Young was and what he had been 
before coming there. He was tempted to inquire, but 
thought of what Bob Thompson had said, and, be- 
sides, he was not at all sure his curiosity would be sat- 
isfied if he did ask. 

At the end of two weeks his ankle had so far re- 
covered that he was able to travel. On the morning 
fixed for his departure. Young having left the house 
after breakfast, Darrell walked into the sitting room 
to take a last look at surroundings which he had come 
to like. He felt that in some respects the two weeks 
he had passed there had been an epoch in his life. 
While many things Young said had set him to think- 
ing in new directions, he was still more impressed by 
the man himself. Curious as he had been to know 
Young’s history, he felt a still greater interest in the 


44 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


questions: What is to be his future? Will he waste 
his life here? 

As he was wondering about the answers to these 
questions Young entered the room, saying: ‘‘I sad- 
dled your horse and rode him a few miles yesterday, 
thinking he might be too skittish and throw you 
again/^ 

^^Thank you,’’ said Darrell. ^^I’ll try not to get 
thrown again this trip, though I really don’t feel that 
my accident has been a misfortune to me. And now, 
I want to reimburse you for the expense I’ve been to 
you.” 

Young courteously declined compensation, saying 
the obligation was on his part, that he had enjoyed 
Darrell’s visit and hoped he’d come again whenever 
he could. 

“I accept that invitation right now,” said Darrell, 
‘^conditioned only upon my being able to get here.” 
With some hesitation he added: “I don’t want to be 
too inquisitive, Mr. Young, but do you expect to re- 
main here permanently?” 

“No, I think not — permanently,” replied Young. 

“It seems to me,” said Darrell, “that if I had your 
views and — your way of stating them, I should seek a 
wider field.” 

“Possibly not, i^ you had all my views,” replied 
Young, smiling; then he added, reflectively, “Still, I 
had thought of it. After all, the greatest success a 


SOME WESTERN VIEWS 45 

man can achieve is to learn to possess his own soul. 
I am trying to learn the lesson.” 

Then, after a pause, his eyes fixed on the distant 
mountains, he repeated, musingly: 


*' 'Serene, I fold my hands and wait, 

Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; 

I rave no more ’gainst time or fate. 

For lo! my own shall come to me. 

" ‘I stay my haste, I make delays. 

For what avails this eager pace? 

I stand amid the eternal ways, 

And what is mine shall know my face. 

****<•>«• 

" ‘The stars come nightly to the sky; 

The tidal wave unto the sea; 

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high. 
Can keep my own away from me.’ ” 


As if by mutual understanding and without an^ 
other word being said the two left the room and 
passed out of the house to where Darrell’s horse was 
tied. There, having secured from Young a promise 
to correspond, or at least to answer his letters, Darrell 
mounted and after a final handshake rode away, feel- 
ing that the time he had passed there was somehow 
the beginning of a new era in his life — that in some 
way he had experienced an awakening which he could 
not very clearly define, even to himself. 


CHAPTER V. 


DAKEELL. 

The views concerning the effect of environment 
which Darrell had expresssed in his conversation with 
Young were, as most of our views are, the result of 
personal experience, which includes not only the sen- 
sations which have been received through the medium 
of the senses, hut as well every mental or spiritual im- 
pression which the person has had. 

We see things in perspective, and never singly. 
What we call good judgment and bad judgment are 
largely matters of vision, for judgment is the result 
of the combinations in which things present them- 
selves and the viewpoint from which they are seen. 
If all men’s visions were equal and if they saw things 
from the same viewpoint all men’s opinions would 
be identical. It is only man’s limited vision and the 
false point of view from which he sometimes sees 
which prevent his arriving at absolute truth on any 
subject. It is all a matter of vision and perspective. 

John W. Darrell was the second child and only son 
of Thomas and Martha Darrell, his sister Mary being 


DAKRELL 


47 


three years his senior. The elder Darrell was a retail 

merchant in the town of B , in Connecticut, where 

the family resided in a comfortable frame cottage. 
He was reasonably prosperous in business and had the 
reputation of being upright and honest, a reputation 
which he had fairly earned and tried to deserve. He 
took pride in being a just man. Pie did not mean to 
get a cent wrongfully from anybody, nor was it any 
part of his intention that any one should get a cent 
wrongfully from him. He was pious and somewhat 
austere in his piety. In his family morning and even- 
ing prayers were held regularly in connection with the 
reading of a chapter from the bible, and a meal was 
never eaten over which a blessing had not been asked. 
All the family were regular attendants at church and 
at the midweek prayer meeting, while the children 
were sent regularly to Sunday school — or rather. Sab- 
bath school — where for many years their father was 
teacher of a bible class. 

Mrs. Darrell was a woman of more than ordinary 
intellect, as well as of refinement and sensibility. She 
was a gentle, affectionate mother, whose whole life, 
like that of the children, was dominated by the will of 
her husband. Not that the elder Darrell was either 
as husband or parent tyrannical or unkind as those 
terms are commonly understood. He was known 
to all the community to be ‘^a good provider.” He 
would not for a moment have allowed any member of 


48 


THE LAEGER FAITH 


his family to lack any of the necessaries of life as he 
understood them to he. As has been said, he sought 
to he a just man. If a man of his character could be 
said to have a hobby, his hobby was strict and exact 
justice. 

Still, he was a man in whose presence children are 
wont to he quiet. Little John and his sister used to 
engage in noisy romps sometimes when only their 
mother was present; as soon as their father returned 
they were apt to think it was bedtime, and this with- 
out any urging from either parent. 

From their earliest infancy there had been instilled 
into the minds of both children the strictest tenets of 
orthodoxy. One of the first books of which John had 
any recollection was a little paper-covered volume 
which his father had presented to him when he was 
five or six years old. On the cover was a picture of 
John Eogers being burned at the stake, while near 
him stood his wife surrounded by several children of 
various sizes, and holding a baby in her arms. Most 
of the literature of this volume was arranged in short 
verses and rhymes which could he easily memorized. 
Among the first of these in the hook was a couplet 
over which the youthful John spent many hours of 
deep meditation: 


'In Adam’s fall 
We sinned all.” 


DARRELL 


49 


It seemed so very long ago — he had heard them say 
it was six thousand years — since Adam ate that apple. 
Of course it was very wicked of Adam, since God had 
told him not to, but still the awful penalty attached! 
That most of the human race should be cast into hell- 
fire, there to suffer eternal torture on account of 
Adam doing that little thing, shocked his sense of 
justice and right. But with fear and trembling he 
tried to cast out the thought that it was unjust. His 
conscience upbraided him for daring to think that 
God could be unjust. He was such a little boy. He 
did not know about these things, and it was wicked 
for him to be questioning the right and wrong of 
what the bible said. Some day when he got older 
he would understand it all. Of course his father un- 
derstood it, but he could not bring himself to ask 
his father or even his mother about it, for fear his 
father would think he was questioning God^s jus- 
tice. He tried to quit thinking about it till he should 
arrive at an age when he could understand it, but the 
subject would not down. In his waking hours and in 
his dreams he was confronted by that awful couplet 
and the terrific implication it contained. Of course 
his father and mother would be saved, but his sister 
Mary — Mary wasn’t very religious, he was afraid, and 
the heat would be awfully hard on her, too, for Mary 
couldn’t stand pain very well. For himself he had 
no hope; if he should die now he was doomed. He felt 


50 


THE LAEGEB FAITH 


in his inmost soul that he had never properly re- 
pented of Adames sin. His only hope was that he 
might live until some time when he could become re- 
generated. He wished he could do it now, but he 
couldn’t. 

With all his doubts and fears, John strove man- 
fully to do what was right as he understood it. At 
Sunday school he was taught to say: “Thou God 
seest me” in times of temptation, and for a long time 
he repeated this to himself many times each day, and 
tried sincerely to bear it constantly in mind as a regu- 
lation of his conduct. 

When he was seven years old his mother noticed 
one evening that something was wrong with him. He 
could not eat his supper; tears came to his eyes fre- 
quently, and he could hardly talk. His mother said 
nothing to him until he had gone to bed, where she 
soon followed him. John was kneeling at his bed in 
an agony of grief. 

“Why, John, what is the matter?” said his mother, 
seating herself beside him and laying her hand on his 
head. * 

“Oh, mother! I’m a thief!” wailed the boy. 

“What have you stolen, my son?” asked his mother. 

“An apple, ’nd I ate it,” sobbed John. 

“Try to quit crying,” said his mother, “and tell me 
about it, dear.” 

“Me ’nd Tommy Snider — went to the creek — ’nd 


DABRELL 


61 


comin^ home we — went into Deacon Hargrave’s or- 
chard ’nd — both stole an apple.” 

^‘Have you asked God to forgive you?” said his 
mother. 

^^Oh, yes! hut I know he never will. Fm as had as 
Adam. He never forgave Adam^ ’nd He’s never for- 
given the people since for what Adam did. God’s es- 
pecially particular about apples,” replied John. The 
child was absolutely sincere. 

The utter hopelessness of his case had quieted him 
somewhat; he was in a state of stony despair. He 
knew himself to be beyond redemption; he was con- 
vinced that but one fate awaited him, and it seemed 
to him right and proper that the punishment should 
follow close on the heels of the sin. 

Mrs. Darrell had placed the child on the bed with 
his head in her lap. Stroking the little head, she hesi- 
tated. Should she comfort the anguished spirit by 
saying frankly what was in her mind to say? Would 
she dare do or say anything which might tend to 
weaken the beliefs with which the child’s mind ha.d 
been imbued from infancy? Would not her husband' 
strongly disapprove and even denounce any such ac- 
tion on her paj’t? The mother’s heart bled for the 
sufferings of her son, but she was in doubt how best to 
comfort him. For a long time she sat there wonder- 
ing what was right for her to do. The question was 
solved for her, at least for the time. Overtaxed na- 


52 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


ture had asserted itself in the reasonably healthy body 
of the child. John slept. 

The sorrows of children are very real and very 
acute, but nature has wisely provided that they shall 
be short-lived. In the course of time John began to 
wonder whether after all he had done such a terrible 
thing; then he had a feeling of sympathy, almost one 
of comradeship, for Adam. In extenuation of Adam’s 
sin he reflected that, although Adam was a grown man, 
still he was quite young at the time of the offense, and 
perhaps didn’t know any better about right and wrong 
than a little boy of the present day. Finally a time 
came when the recollection of the apple affair was not 
painful to him, although he supposed it had left a 
scar on his soul. He had been taught that every sin 
leaves a scar on the soul. 

As time progressed his general character was much 
the same. He wanted to do right. There was nothing 
vicious about him. Still there was a gradual weak- 
ening in some of the things he had believed so im- 
plicitly as a child, and a loss of interest in what he 
had regarded as religion. He observed this change 
in himself and attributed it to the general depravity 
of man originating in Adam’s fall. 

In the meantime he was making fair progress in 
physical growth and doing well in his studies at 
school. At the age of flfteen years he was a well- 
grown lad and had entered upon the second year of 


DAKEELL 


53 


the local high-school course. In that year two events 
occurred which, with the train of incidents that en- 
sued, were destined to prove momentous in his life. 

His sister Mary was already a young woman, and 
for a year or two had been going out in society, as it 
was locally termed. Her father was quite strict with 
her and had somewhat limited views as to the kind 
of gatherings to which it was proper for a young 
woman to go. Still, Mary managed to attend a dance 
now and then, and numbers of socials and parties of 
various kinds where young people meet. Indeed, 
Mary, who resembled her father in features as well as 
in character, was very much disposed to have her own 
w'ay in matters social, and when, as sometimes hap- 
pened, her opinion and her father’s did not agree, it 
usually resulted in the elder giving way to the 
younger. It so happened that a few months previous 
tc the time of which we are speaking Mary had met 
a young man from a neighboring town, named George 
Motley. He was of good parentage, fairly well-to-do, 
and unobjectionable to Mary’s parents in all respects 
save one, hut that one was in the eyes of Thomas 
Darrell a fatal objection. It was generally known and 
talked about that Motley had at home ^‘The Crisis,” 
‘‘The Eights of Man” and “The Age of Eeason,” works 
written by Thomas Paine. It was further known that 
Motley had not only said these were works which 
young men ought to read, hut that he had insisted in 


54 


THE LAEGER FAITH 


an argument with the minister that the author of 
these works was a patriotic citizen and a much-ca' 
lumniated man. 

The mere thought of his daughter marrying a man 
with such heretical views was gall and wormwood to 
Thomas Darrell. Meeting Motley on the street one 
day in company with his daughter, he publicly or- 
dered him never to speak to her again; then taking 
his daughter’s arm he hurried her home. The old re- 
sult followed. Within three weeks Mary and her 
lover had eloped, and Mary Darrell became Mrs. 
George Motley. 

What Thomas Darrell underwent during that year 
none but himself knew. A few days after Mary’s de- 
parture Mrs. Darrell gently suggested that they call 
the young folks home and forget all differences. Her 
husband met her with a stern refusal, saying they 
should never set foot in his house and he never 
wanted to hear the name of his daughter mentioned 
again. Mrs. Darrell wept and was silent. But Thomas 
Darrell was stricken. From the time the knowledge 
of what he looked upon as his great misfortune came 
to him, he was a changed man. His austerity was 
greater than before, but his confidence was gone. He 
sincerely believed that the life he had lived entitled 
him to better treatment at the hands of Providence. 
He turned to his bible and tried to read Job, but it 
was as dry chaff to him. 


DARRELL 


65 


All his life he had been grasping at shadows and 
missing the substance; all his life he had been looking 
upon a mere outward observance of form for the thing 
itself which the form only represented. All his life 
he had been observing the letter and wholly missing 
the spirit of the law. 

His physical health gave way rapidly and a few 
weeks after his daughter’s disappearance from home 
ho took to his bed. The doctors said his trouble was 
general collapse and lack of vitality. These terms am 
swered as well as any other, for it was before the time 
when appendicitis became the name of every unknown 
ill that flesh is heir to. 

Ten days after taking to his bed his family were 
gathered around him. It was never known whether he 
recognized his daughter. He died as he had lived, and 
for many years his example was cited to the little boys 
in the Sunday school as one worthy their emulation. 

The months following his father’s death were to 
John Darrell a time of peculiar peace and quiet, 
though his life up to that time could not be said to 
have been a turbulent one. Between him and his 
mother there had always existed the warmest sym- 
pathy and affection.. John was his mother’s boy. As 
those who knew the family said, Mary was her fath^ 
er’s child, while John had ^Taken after” his mother. 
Mary and her husband were frequent visitors, Mrs. 
Darrell never having felt any resentment toward 


56 


THE LARGER FAITH 


either of them. John thought his sister better as a 
woman than she had been as a girl at home — especial' 
ly in the last few years. She was gentler, more kindly, 
and John felt for her a greater affection than he had 
known before. 

Mrs. Darrell and her son attended church regularly, 
and he kept up his attendance at Sunday school. At 
home, however, family prayers and the asking of 
blessings at meals were discontinued. Frequently in 
the evenings, at his mother’s request, J ohn would read 
aloud a chapter in the bible, usually one in the new 
testament. He sometimes felt guilty at the conscious- 
ness that, for him at least, the home atmosphere was 
improved by the absence of his father. He tried to 
dismiss the feeling as being unworthy and even 
wicked, and made no attempt to analyze or account 
for it, which he probably could not have done then 
had he tried, though the explanation was very simple. 
Love had superseded fear in that household. 

John was now nearly seventeen years old. His 
father’s estate was insufficient to keep him longer at 
school. It was necessary that he should go to work. 
He was casting about for something to do, when his 
mother received a call from a Mr. Conway, a former 
friend and business associate of Thomas Darrell, who, 
a few years before, had removed to Ohio. Before leav> 
ing, Mr. Conway offered to take John home with him, 
give him employment that would a little more than 


DARRELL 


57 


pay his expenses the first year, and also afford him an 
opportunity to attend a good business college in the 
evenings. After brief consideration by John and his 
mother the offer was accepted, and a few days later, 
having taken an affectionate farewell of his mother 
and sister, John left home to accompany Mr. Con- 
way to the city of C in Ohio. 

The incidents of the journey need not he recorded, 
though they were highly interesting to John. Neither 
need we dwell upon the details of his business life. 
Suffice it to say he succeeded in pleasing his em- 
ployers and at the time we first met him occupied the 
position of confidential clerk in the banking and 
brokerage establishment of Wirt, Conway & Co., in 
whose employ he had begun as errand boy. 

When he first entered upon his new life after leav- 
ing home he attended the church to which his parents 
had belonged. After awhile he began going to other 
churches occasionally. He was listening to sermons 
now. He had heard great numbers of them in his 
younger days, hut not many of them had caught his 
attention. When at the end of three years he first 
visited his mother he told her, in answer to her in- 
quiry, that he usually went to church on Sundays, but 
did not attend any one church regularly. The truth 
is, for some time he had been getting restive. To him 
there seemed to be a hollowness and an insincerity 
about the sermons he heard. The more he thought 


58 


THE LARGER FAITH 


about it and compared the teachings of the different 
churches the more hollow and insincere it all seemed. 
Finally he got to the point where he said to himself: 

don’t believe it!” 

He conceived an aversion for churches and for 
what he thought was religion. He distrusted those 
who were reputed persons of great piety. When once 
in awhile he listened to a sermon he criticised the 
preachers as shams and hypocrites. And yet was it all 
a lie? Was there no truth in it? He believed his 
father to have been a sincere man; he was sure his 
mother was entirely sincere. He knew many church 
members whom he could not look upon as hypocrites. 
But how much of it all was true? How much was 
false? He decided to put aside the whole subject. 
He would not think about it or worry over it. He 
would dismiss all prejudice concerning it and content 
himself by saying, ^‘1 don’t know.” 

At the time of meeting William Young the little 
boy who had so often and so devoutly repeated ‘^Thou 
God seest me” had come to believe himself an ag- 
nostic. 


CHAPTEE VI. 


WHITEFOOT. 

After DarrelFs departure, Young resumed the even 
tenor of his former solitary life. He was not lonely, 
or if he was he showed no signs of it. He kept him- 
self employed either with his work or with his books 
and periodical literature. His work was not arduous. 
He had not a large amount of stock but what he had 
received a degree of care and attention unusual in 
that part of the country. He had put up shelters for 
his cattle and sheep, which most stockmen in that 
section deemed entirely unnecessary. He was what 
eastern people call ‘^forehanded’^ with his work. 
Whatever needed doing he did well and did it at the 
time it ought to be done. When he had no special 
work on hand he was not an early riser. He often 
read till twelve or even one o’clock at night, and got 
up the next morning when he felt rested. In other 
respects his life was as regular as that of a soldier in 
barracks, and in the care of his person and of his 
house he was as precise as if he were looking for an 
inspector to drop in at any time. 


60 


THE LARGEK FAITH 


He received a letter from Darrell six weeks after 
the latter’s departure from the ranch, saying he had 
arrived safe at home without further accident and 
that his ankle had fully recovered and was as good as 
new. In closing he said: ‘‘I will write you at greater 
length before long. The fact is, I want you to give me 
your views on some matters touched upon in the 
talks we had, if it will not be asking too much of 
you.” Young answered this letter, saying, among 
other things: ^^You are welcome to any views I have 
which you think may be of use to you. I shall be 
glad to hear from you at any time, and you know I 
have at my disposal ample time to write.” 

One evening in the latter part of October a visitor 
appeared, the first since Darrell had left. He was a 
boy who looked to be about seventeen years old, and 
he presented a sorry appearance. His clothes were 
old and dirty and looked as though they had not been 
taken off for an indefinite time. On his head was 
what had once been a black felt hat, now shapeless 
and with several holes in the crown. The soles of his 
shoes were almost entirely worn off, and around one 
foot was wrapped a piece of gunny-sack, which was 
held in place with baling-wire. Slung over his shoul- 
der he carried a dirty-looldng gray blanket, rolled 
up and tied with a piece of rope. His face was thin 
and hungry looking, and his eyes had in them a fur- 
tive, hunted look. He asked for something to eat in 


WHITEFOOT 


61 


a manner which plainly indicated that the answer 
would be a matter of immense importance to him. 
Upon receiving Young’s prompt affirmative reply and 
an invitation to enter, his face took on an eager look, 
and laying his blanket down by the door-step he fol- 
lowed Young into the house. 

‘‘You might wash there,” said Young, indicating 
the washstand, “while I set out something.” 

The boy hastily washed his hands and face, but 
seemed in doubt as to whether he ought to take hold 
of the clean towel. 

“Use it,” said Young, seeing his hesitation. 

“Which way are you traveling?” asked Young, 
when the boy had finished washing. 

“To Texas,” replied the boy, “where my folks live.” 

“A little out of the ordinary lines of travel, aren’t 
you?” suggested Young. 

“I guess I am,” said the boy with some confusion; 
“I don’t know the roads through here very well.” 

Nothing more was said till Young told the boy to 
be seated at the table and help himself, which he did 
in a way that was at once astonishing and pitiful to 
Young. He attacked the victuals like a half-starved 
animal, which indeed he was. There was an ample 
amount of food on the table, and when the boy had 
eaten what would have been a hearty meal for two 
ordinary men. Young said: “My boy, I think you’d 


62 


THE LARGER FAITH 


better not eat any more now. When did you last have 
anything to eat?” 

Yesterday,” said the boy, ‘^and not much then.” 

^‘Well,” said Young, ‘‘you’ll have plenty before 
you leave here; but for this time let that do.” 

The boy quit reluctantly, but appeared relieved as 
he asked, “Will you feed me again in the morning, 
and can I sleep in your corral?” 

“Yes, in the morning you may eat all you want; 
and I’ll find you a place to sleep,” answered Young. 

In answer to questions the boy said his name was 
Joe Smith; that he had helped take a drove of cat- 
tle from Texas north through New Mexico to Colo- 
rado, and was on his way back home. 

Young forbore questioning him closely, seeing 
that he was made uncomfortable by being asked about 
himself, and thinking it probable that the answers 
he had given were untrue. Soon the boy said: “If 
you’ll let me, now. I’ll take my blanket down to the 
corral and find a place to bunk; I’m pretty tired.” 

“You can sleep here,” said Young, “but I think 
you’d better wash first. You’ve been sleeping in those 
clothes, haven’t you ?” 

“Yes,” said the boy; “I ain’t had them off for a 
good while.” 

“Well, a warm bath will not do you any harm,” 
said Young. Then placing on the floor a large tin 
pan with warm water in it he went to the bed-room 


WHITEFOOT 


63 


and returned with towels and a woolen night-shirt. 
‘Tut this on/^ he said, “when you have got yourself 
as clean as you can, and get into the bed that has the 
covers turned down, in that room. Leave your clothes 
on the floor here. They’ll not he disturbed till you 
get them in the morning.” 

The next morning, in answer to Young’s inquiry, 
the boy said he had never had a better night’s sleep. 
When he was about to put on the remnants of his 
shoes. Young handed him a pair of his own old ones, 
but which looked new beside those the boy had been 
wearing, saying, “Try these on.” 

“May I have these?” asked the pleased boy. 

“Yes, if you can wear them,” answered Young. 

“Oh, they fit like they had been made for me,” re- 
plied the boy, putting on one shoe; “only they’re a 
little long; but that won’t matter.” 

After breakfast, which was a hearty one, the boy 
asked if there was any work he could do to pay for his 
meals and lodging, and seemed disappointed on being 
told there was none. Noticing that the boy limped 
as he walked. Young asked if he was lame. 

“Yes,” said the boy, “I’m a little stiff and my feet 
are sore. It wasn’t any fun walking in them old 
shoes.” 

“You’d better rest over to-day and start in the 
morning, if you’re not in a hurry,” said Young. 


64 


THE LARGER FAITH 


‘Tm not in any hurry, but you’ve done about 
enough for me,” answered the boy, hesitatingly. 

‘'That is all right,” said Young; “we’re here to help 
each other. You just do a good turn to some one else 
when you have a chance.” 

“You bet I’ll do that — on your account,” answered 
the boy with some fervor, looking gratefully at 
Young. 

That day was one of the happiest the boy had 
known. Sauntering idly about the place he inspected 
all its appointments with that natural interest in little 
things which is common to boys, and which men do 
well to retain. The fenees, the buildings and sheds, 
the way the doors and gates were hung and fastened — 
these and many other things about the place received 
his admiring criticism. It was the domestic animals 
about the place, though, that most astonished the boy. 
Most of them showed but little shyness toward him, 
and he observed that none of them, from the fowls to 
the two milch-cows, showed the least fear of his host. 
The latter, as he went about among them, patting 
one on the head, picking a burr from the hair of an- 
other and talking to them meanwhile, seemed to have 
the entire confidence of them all. 

“I never seen stock so tame,” said the boy. “How’d 
you get ’em that way?” 

“Oh, it’s because they like me,” said Young, smil- 
ing. 


WHITEFOOT 


66 


Seeing a quantity of salt in a trough under an open 
shed, and some of the animals helping themselves to 
it, amazed the boy. 

‘‘I always thought they’d kill themselves drinking 
water if they had all the salt they wanted,” he said. 

“Not if they have it regularly,” said Young. The 
boy concluded that an abundance of salt must be 
conducive to tameness in animals. 

As he was about to start on his journey the next 
morning, having expressed his thanks somewhat awk- 
wardly but with much heartiness. Young handed him 
a paper package containing some bread and cold 
meat, saying: “You may need this.” Tears of grati- 
tude stood in the boy’s eyes as he said: “I’d like to 
know your name.” 

“William Young,” was the reply. 

“Well, good-by, Mr. Young. I’ll not forget to do 
a favor to somebody on your account, when I have 
a chance,” said the boy. 

“Do it on your own account, as well as mine,” said 
Young. “Good-by, Joe.” 

As the boy wended his way southward he thought 
of William Young. “I wish I hadn’t told him what 
I did,” he said to himself. “My! what if I could’ve 
got a job and stayed there! But then he said he had 
no work for me. Well, I’ll not forget that name — nor 
the man either.” 

Until nearly noon he traveled without incident. 


66 


THE LARGER FAITH 


He judged he had walked about ten miles — though in 
reality he had not gone so far — when he noticed seven 
or eight horses approaching from the east, led by an 
iron-gray with a peculiar gait. He stood still and 
watched them, in doubt whether they meant to run 
him down. They seemed to have no other than 
friendly intentions, however. They all came close to 
where he stood, while the gray and a white-faced 
sorrel came directly up to him and began nosing 
about his clothes as if trying to get at the contents 
of his pockets. 

“Well, you^re good ones,” said the boy; then, a mo- 
ment later: “What’s the matter with one of you 
carrying me a piece?” There seemed to be nothing 
the matter with it; or if there was neither of the 
horses made it known. Untying the rope which was 
wrapped about his blanket and making a loop at one 
end of it, he cogitated. “If I take this gray, the whole 
bunch will follow, and I may get them off their range; 
if I take the sorrel he’ll come back when I turn him 
loose and there’ll be no harm done. I’ll try the 
sorrel.” 

Slipping the loop into the horse’s mouth, passing 
the rope over his head and through the loop, he tied 
a knot and had a very fair bridle, though it had but 
one rein. The horse allowed the boy to place the 
blanket on him and then to mount, and proved to be 
easily guided with the single rein. When he had 


WHITEFOOT 


67 


walked the horse some distance, he struck him a light 
blow with the end of the rope and the horse at once 
broke into a free, swinging lope. ‘^This beats walk- 
ing,” thought the boy. He felt such pleasure and ex- 
hilaration in riding that he never thought of his 
lunch till about two o^clock, when he came to a small 
stream of water. ^‘1^11 turn the horse loose and eat 
my grub here,” he said to himself. Dismounting, he 
noticed for the first time that the horse was much 
heated by his fast riding. “It’ll hurt him to drink 
while he’s so warm,” said the boy to himself. “I’ll 
tie him while I eat and then turn him loose.” 

Alas! for the weakness of human nature. Like 
many another who has left the path of rectitude with- 
out any evil design and with the full intention of 
quickly returning, the temptation to keep on just a 
little further was too much for the boy. When he 
had eaten his lunch and watered the horse he in- 
tended to ride only to the top of a hill in sight and 
about two miles away; then to another hill; and then 
till the sun reached the top of the mountains, which 
would be about five o’clock, when he would, for sure, 
turn the horse loose. What he might finally have 
done can be only a matter of conjecture. While the 
sun was still half an hour above the mountain-tops 
be rode over a ridge and found himself within a few 
rods of two cow-boys, who were riding directly toward 
him. 


68 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


The boy’s feelings at that moment could be ade- 
quately described only by a man who has been se- 
curely tied on a railroad track with the headlight of 
an approaching train in sight. He knew enough 
about the customs of that country to understand that 
one caught horse-stealing was not indicted or tried 
in any court of justice; his body was simply found 
next morning hanging to a tree. He also realized 
fully that the distance he had ridden the horse 
precluded the idea of the truth being accepted as any 
defense to the charge of theft. He was thoroughly 
scared; and, to use a western phrase, ‘‘he had a right 
to be scared.” He felt it was useless to attempt to 
pass them, yet he tried it. But one of the cow-boys 
drew rein directly across the path and, stopping him, 
said: “Hello, kid, where’d you get that horse?” The 
boy faintly murmured something about having traded 
for him. 

“Hot much!” said the man. “That’s Bill Young’s 
Whitefoot, ’nd Bill Young hasn’t been tradin’ with 
no kid like you.” 

“Bill Young’s horse!” exclaimed the boy. In jus- ' 
tice it must be stated that for the moment he entirely 
forgot his own danger in the horror of the knowledge 
that he had robbed the man who had shown him 
kindness. 

Without a word the cow-boy reaehed out his hand 


WHITEFOOT 


69 


and took from the boy the rope by which he had been 
guiding the horse. 

use tyin’ him, is there. Boh?” said one of the 

men. 

‘‘hTaw!” replied the one addressed as Bob; then 
turning to the hoy: “You understand you’ll get 
bored through if you get off that horse or try to run?” 
he said. 

“Yes,” answered the hoy; and the men resumed 
their journey, one of them leading the stolen horse. 

“What’ll we do with him. Bob?” said one. 

“Well, accordin’ to Hoyle some of us’ll have to 
take him to Bill Young’s. He’s got a right to a 
show,” answered Bob. 

“Well,” replied the other, “you’d better take him 
up to-morrow, then; ’nd you’d best take an extra 
horse along to bring him back on; Young wouldn’t 
want anything to happen ’round there.” 

iSn it was all quickly arranged. That night one of 
the men with a big revolver lying on the table beside 
him stood guard, or rather sat guard, over the boy; 
while the latter dreamed that a noose was around his 
neck with the rope thrown over the limb of a tree and 
in the hands of a lot of men who were about to pull 
him up. 

Which, indeed, was not far from the fact. 


CHAPTER VII. 


NED LONG. 

The next morning, when the hoy awoke from a 
heavy but troubled sleep, his guard had been 
changed, and a man whom he had not yet seen, but 
who from his dress and appearance was evidently a 
cow-boy, was watching over him. 

The boy had not taken off his clothes, and as he 
got up the cow-boy said to him; ‘‘Want some break- 
fast?” 

“No,” said the boy, “I^m not very hungry.” 

“Better wash yourself ’nd eat something; you’ll feel 
better for it,” said his guard. 

The boy complied and ate a few mouthfuls, but 
with no great relish for the food. 

“Say, kid,” said the guard to him when he had 
done eating, “you ain’t got no way of squarin’ this 
thing when you get up to Young’s, have you?” 

“I suppose not,” answered the boy, dejectedly. 

“That’s about the way I sized it up,” said his guard. 
“Tell you what I’d do if I was in your place,” he con- 
tinued, lowering his voice. “If I didn’t get a chance 


NED LONG 


71 


to slip away up at Young’s Fd make a show of tum- 
blin’ off the horse and startin’ to run, on the way 
hack.” 

“What for?” said the boy. “He’d shoot me.” 

“Sure thing!” answered his adviser; “hut Bob’s a 
good shot, ’nd the chances is there’d he no sufferin’. 
If I bad to pass in my checks I’d a whole lot sooner 
do it that way than lookin’ up a rope.” With which 
well-meant suggestions the cow-hoy relapsed into si- 
lence, feeling that he had given the boy good, fatherly 
advice. 

In the preceding half year several valuable horses 
bad been stolen within a radius of fifty miles; and it 
had for some time been understood among all the 
ranchmen and stockmen of that section that when 
they first succeeded in catching a horse-thief they 
would “hang his* hide on the fence.” 

“I kind o’ hate to see the kid strung up,” mused the 
cow-ho}^ to himself; “but it wouldn’t do to let him go, 
leastways not open. His chances of gettin’ away from 
Bob is just about the same as the chances of the ace 
winnin’ five times in one deal. The house has got a 
big percentage in the game he’s playin’ right now.” 

His meditations were interrupted by the arrival at 
the door of Boh Thompson, with two horses saddled 
and bridled, and leading the white-faced sorrel which 
the hoy had ridden the day before. Having placed 
the boy on one of the horses, Bob mounted the other. 


72 


THE LARGEK FAITH 


and leading the sorrel started for Young’s ranch. 
He declined to have the boy’s feet tied in the stirrups, 
remarking drily that it would be time enough to tie 
him on in case anything should happen on the way 
that he couldn’t sit up. 

During the journey hut little conversation was had; 
and Boh refrained from asking the boy any questions 
or making any reference to his situation. “They ain’t 
no use rubbin’ it in on him,” reasoned Bob to him- 
self. 

They arrived at Young’s place shortly before noon. 
Young saw them coming, and was standing in front 
of his place when they arrived. Seeing his horse and 
the boy brought there together, he guessed something 
of the truth before anything was said. In a moment 
he thought of Father Myriel and the stolen candle- 
sticks. 

“Hello, Young! how you stackin’ up?” said Bob. 

“First-rate; how is it with you. Bob?” replied 
Young, as the two shook hands. “Good morning, 
Joe,” he added, to the boy. 

“Know the kid?” asked Bob. 

“Yes, somewhat,” replied Young, guardedly. 

“We found him ridin’ Whitefoot down by the H. 0. 
ranch yesterday ’nd gathered him in,” said Bob. 

With a grieved countenance Young looked at the 
boy, but made no remark. 

“I never knowed ” began the boy, but some- 


NED LONG 73 

thing choked his utterance, and he sat on the horse 
the picture of misery, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

^‘Well, let us put up the horses,” said Young. 

‘‘You go to the house, kid, and stay there till we 
come,” commanded Bob. 

But few words passed between Young and Thomp- 
son as they cared for the horses. Young was troubled 
in spirit. He sincerely wished the boy had got clear 
out of that section of country with the horse, th jugh 
he was much disappointed that the boy would steal. 
In answer to Bob’s question as to his acquaintance 
with the boy, he said, evasively, that the latter had 
passed his place a day or two before. The fact that 
the horse had been stolen after the thief had been en- 
tertained by him would add, he knew, to the cer- 
tainty of a conviction — if that were not already cer- 
tain. 

Two or three times, as Young went about prepar- 
ing dinner, the boy seemed about to address him. 
Each time, however, he merely gulped, looked at 
Thompson and remained silent. 

After dinner the three went into the sitting-room, 
where Bob deftly rolled and smoked one cigarette 
after another; Young, after walking up and down the 
room awhile, got a pipe and also began smoking; 
while the boy sat looking and feeling much like a 
mouse which a cat has played with awhile and then 
turned loose to see if it will run. Occasionally Bob 


74 : 


THE LAEGEE FAITH 


made a remark on some local topic, but Young seemed 
preoccupied and -answered in monosyllables. 

At length Bob remarked: “Well, I ^xpect me ’nd 
the kid had better be gettin’ back to the H. 0.’’ 

“I’ll go with you,” said Young, knocking the ashes 
from his pipe. 

“Well, if you want to,” said Bob. Then, with a 
view of saving his friend from an unpleasant scene, 
he added, in a low tone: “Of course, it ain’t neces- 
sary for you to go. We all know who the horse be- 
longs to.” 

“Yes; but I’ll go along,” said Young. 

“All right, then,” replied Bob. 

The ride back was almost as silent as the one Bob 
and the boy had taken that morning. Young, notic- 
ing that the boy looked pale and tired, suggested that 
they dismount and rest a little at a stream crossing. 
It was the place where the boy had eaten his lunch 
the day before; but it seemed to him a year had passed 
since then. 

Since the arrival of Bob and the boy, Joe, at his 
ranch that morning, Young had been earnestly medi- 
tating on the best course to take. He knew he had 
the good will and, to some extent, at least, the con- 
fidence of the cow-men. He also understood them 
pretty thoroughly, and knew that there are limits 
beyond which their most intimate friends cannot go 
with them. And this was a case where interference 


NED LONG 


75 


seemed worse than useless. Young would readily 
have given not only the stolen horse but his other 
property as well to save the boy; but he felt it would 
be as useless to try to buy the liberty of the defendant 
as it was in the case of ‘‘Tennessee’s Pardner.” 

The genus cow-boy, unmixed with and unmodified 
by encroaching civilization, is an odd combination 
of qualities. He has been best known — or worst 
known — by write-ups detailing his sometimes erratic 
conduct when off the range and off duty. It is prob- 
ably true of him that at times he has drunk large 
quantities of very bad whisky, shot out lights at 
dance-halls, ridden his broncho into buildings and bet 
heavily at faro. 

But these and similar doings of his are merely the 
occasional outbreaks and overflow of a life singularly 
exacting and devoted to duty. He is clannish; but his 
clannishness grows out of his loyalty to his fellows. 
He does many wild, boisterous, vicious things; but 
there are some things he does not do, and one of them 
is to betray a trust reposed in him by his fellows. He 
looks upon theft of stock from the range as one of 
the most serious of crimes; and he was never bribed 
to cast a vote of not guilty where the evidence upon 
a trial for that offense warranted a conviction. He will 
fight, at times to the death, for he is not afraid to die; 
and “in this readiness to die lies folded every loyalty of 
life.” Hone can be more generous in his transactions 


76 


THE LARGER FAITH 


with a friend; none more relentless in dealing with a 
foe. He will quarrel over a ten-cent stake in a game, 
and will throw away a yearns hard earnings in a night. 
Eeady at all times to make any exertion or endure 
any hardships for one of his fellows, he will extermi- 
nate a range thief with as little compunction as he 
would a prairie wolf. Chivalrous to woman, regard- 
less of all the proprieties in his intercourse with men, 
brave even to recklessness, with the most scrupulous 
regard for property rights and no regard at all for 
conventionalities, the right cow-boy, now almost ex- 
tinct, is a subject worthy the pen of a master. 

It was men of this character who would form the 
tribunal before which the boy was to be tried for the 
theft of Whitefoot. 

Night had come on and a full moon was just rising 
above the horizon when Young and his companions 
arrived at the H. 0. ranch. There supper was just 
finished; and while two of the boys took care of the 
horses the three late-comers sat down to eat. Save 
for an unusual quietness there was no indication of 
anything out of the daily routine taking place. 

Shortly after the three had finished their meal the 
cow-boys began to drop away from the house in twos 
and threes, all taking the same direction. At the 
end of half an hour all had left save Young, Bob 
Thompson and the boy. 


NED LONG 


77 


“I ^xpect we’d better be movin’ along/’ remarked 
Bob. 

Without any conversation the three started out and 
followed the same easterly route taken by the others. 

About half a mile from the house they came to 
where the other men were assembled under a giant 
cottonwood tree standing alone in a broad, flat creek 
bottom. It was almost as light as day, and as the 
three approached the place the long shadow of the 
tree extended toward them as if to meet them on the 
way. 

At least two of those present always remembered 
the events of that night, even to the smallest details. 
Young noticed that there were just seventeen per- 
sons there in all. Bill Doolin was in charge of the 
proceedings. 

^‘Well, boys, you that’s on the jury, take your seats,” 
he said; and twelve of the men seated themselves on 
two logs which lay parallel to each other and three 
or four feet apart. “We’re here to try you for horse- 
stealin’,” he said to the boy. “You can set there” — 
indicating a chunk a few feet in front of where the 
jury sat — “and ask any questions or say anything for 
yourself you’re a mind to. Have you got any objec- 
tions to this here jury?” 

The boy shook his head, but said nothing. 

Bob Thompson and the man who was with him 
when the boy was caught were called, and in a few 


78 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


words related the facts. They knew the horse to 
belong to Bill Young. When asked if he wanted to 
ask them any questions the hoy again shook his head 
and was silent. Then Doolin inquired of Young if 
be wanted to testify; hut he answered, ‘^No.” 

^Ts there anything you want to say?’’ said Doolin 
to the hoy. ‘‘You needn’t tell anything you don’t 
want to,” he added. 

“No,” said the boy, in a voice hardly audible, as he 
shook his bead. 

At a nod from Doolin one of the men not sitting 
on the jury then handed to each juror two beans, one 
white, the other of a dark color. Then a hat was 
passed, into which each man dropped one bean, and 
the hat was handed to Doolin, who, after looking at 
the contents, silently handed it around that all pres- 
ent might see the result of the vote. It was held for 
the boy to look at last, but he hardly glanced at it. 

“That’s all,” said Doolin, nodding toward the jury. 
“Get the rope.” 

Then the boy’s dream, in all its horror, came true. 
He was moved to a spot under an outstretched limb 
of the tree, and w^hile some hands adjusted about his 
neck a noose which had been thrown over the limb, 
others tied his hands behind him. 

All the events since the boy’s arrival at the place 
of trial had occupied not more than twenty minutes; 


NED LONG 


79 


and yet there had been a degree of decorum, a sem- 
blance of order, in the proceedings. 

‘‘Boy,’^ said Doolin, in a voice meant to be kindly, 
^^don’t you want to pray before you swing?” 

“I don’t know how,” muttered the boy. 

‘‘Is there anything you want to say — any word you 
want to send to anybody?” asked Doolin. 

For more than twenty-four hours, save the short 
time he slept, the boy had been looking death in the 
face. At first he was stupefied with fear. Later he 
felt a terrible longing to escape. He had that day 
performed an amount of physical labor sufficient to 
tire the ordinary man. His overwrought nerves could 
bear no further strain. He was no longer tortored 
by fear. The worst had come. In the calmness of 
utter despair he held up his head and spoke. 

“Only to Mr. Young there,” he said. “I never 
meant to steal his horse.” Then, to the others: “The 
rest of you fellows needn’t think you’re gettin’ any 
the best of me. I ain’t had no good time livin’ any- 
how, ’nd I’ve had worse things happen to me than 
dyin’. You can hang me, but you can’t scare me any 
more, damn you! If I go to hell I’ll be sure to meet 
up with you fellows before long! Good-by, Mr. 
Young!” 

The boy’s voice bad risen as he proceeded until his 
last words to those about to hang him, just before he 
bade farewell to Young, were almost shouted. 


80 


THE LARGEH FAITH 


The sudden transformation of the cowering, over- 
awed lad into this defiant young animal at bay, was 
startling to those engaged in his execution. For a 
few seconds they gazed at him in wonder. Then Doo- 
lin said: ^Ts there any of you that would say some- 
thing, or maybe put up a prayer for him?” . 

At this all eyes turned toward Young, who was 
standing a little apart from the others, the moon 
shining full into his pale face. For a few moments 
there was silence. With the boy the reaction bad 
come quickly after his sudden outbreak, and his knees 
V ere visibly shaking. 

Young gave a slight start, as if awaking from a 
dream. Then, in a low voice, vibrant with intense 
feeling, and at first more as if soliloquizing than ad- 
dressing those around him, he said: 

“Life is eternal. Every act, every thought, lives 
on and on. The present is but an echo of what was 
done, what was thought, in the past. Each of us is 
an expression of thought that existed long before we 
appeared in our present forms. The life of each one 
of us is to a large extent the result of causes with 
which we had nothing to do. As our lives were 
molded by those who lived before our time, so we 
who now live are molding the future. What we do 
will add to the welfare or to the misery — ^will make 
for the weal or woe — of those yet unborn. 

“Humanity is all one. A wTong done to any per- 


NED LONG 


81 


Bon is an injury to mankind. He who hates does 
himself the greatest possible injury. He who loves 
is doing for himself the highest possible good. 

‘^Because some time in the past love was stifled, 
this wandering boy is here to-night to pay the pen- 
alty of his crime. Is it his crime ? I think not. It is 
the fault — or the crime — of some one who in the past 
ignored the great truth that love is the supreme law. 

^^The time will come, my brothers, when there will 
be no outcasts, when the truth will be known and 
acted on that we are all members of one family and 
the children of one loving parent. We can do much 
to hasten the coming of that day. It is well for us 
and for all if we do justly and love mercy. How is 
the only time when any man can do the thing that is 
right. 

^^If we take from this boy the life that we cannot 
give back, we shall be doing ourselves a wrong that 
will cause us lifelong regret and shame, a wrong that 
can never be righted. If we do what our better na- 
tures prompt us to do, we shall always look upon this 
day as a bright spot in our lives. 

‘^Oh, men! are we fit to sit in judgment upon him, 
or to take his life? He is little more than a child. 
How many of us would be here to-night if our short- 
comings at his age had not been overlooked — if our 
wrongs committed in later life had not been con- 
doned? We do not know what trials he has had. 


THE LARGER FAITH 


what wrongs he has suffered, what temptations he 
has overcome. 

“ ‘What’s done we partly may compute. 

But know not what’s resisted.’ 

‘Tor his sake, for our own sakes, for the sake of the 
loving God whose children we all are, let not this 
wrong he done!” 

Young’s manner had changed. The man seemed 
to expand, to grow before the eyes of his hearers as ho 
proceeded. He spoke to them with impassioned ear- 
nestness, and at the close his voice, though it had not 
been raised, had in it the ring of perfect confidence. 
The men addressed listened, at first curiously, then 
v/ith hated breath. There was a short interval of si- 
lence, and then Young, turning upward a face as 
calm as that of the moon itself, uttered this prayer: 

“Our Father, Who art ever present with us, we 
thank Thee day by day for all the good that is ours 
— for the life and health and strength which are of 
Thee and of which Thou art a part; for the blessed 
sunshine, the beautiful moonlight, the streams that 
flow and the life-giving air we breathe. 

“We thank Thee that we live in a land of freedom, 
where the heavy hand of the oppressor is unknown. 

“We thank Thee especially, our Father, for the in- 
telligence which enables us to know Thee as our 


NED LONG 


83 


common parent and to recognize each other as broth' 
ers — that teaches us that an injury to the smallest 
of Thy children is a wrong done to ourselves. 

“For all these things, our Father, we shall thank 
Thee while we live. Amen.” 

There was hut one person present who kept his hat 
on during this prayer. His hands were tied. 

At the conclusion of his prayer Young turned and 
walked slowly toward the house. For a little time 
the others stood looking after him. But one man had 
hold of the rope, and he was wholly unconscious that 
he was holding it. Bill Doolin had been conducting 
the affair up to within the last five minutes, but in 
that five minutes Young had completely superseded 
him in command, and when Young walked away the 
men, including Doolin, all felt that their leader was 
gone. 

Presently Bob Thompson pulled Doolin’s sleeve, 
and, with a jerk of his head away from the group, 
walked off a few rods, followed by Doolin, where the 
two held a conversation in tones too low to he un- 
derstood by the others. After two or three minutes 
one of the two, raising his voice enough to be heard, 
said: 

“Boys!” 

The rest of the cow-hoys moved over to where 
Doolin and Thompson were talking, leaving the hoy 


84 


THE LARGER FAITH 


standing alone, his hands still tied, the noose about 
his neck and the rope hanging over the limb. 

The boy could hear only a murmur of voices imtil 
some one said in a louder tone: 

“It won’t do for this to get out. Every mother’s 
son here must swear not to squeak, even to his 
chums.” 

“How about Young?” asked another. 

“Huh! he’s not the kind that talks,” said Doolin. 
“Still, one of us might mention it to him.” 

The men returned in a body to where the boy was 
standing, when one of them untied the boy’s hands 
while Doolin removed the noose from his neck, say- 
ing: 

“Kid, you go and tell Bill Young you owe your 
neck to him, ’nd then you’d better hit the trail.” 

The boy did not move at once, and Doolin, hand- 
ing him some money, added in a manner which had 
recovered all its accustomed roughness: 

“Take this so’s you won’t need to get into no more 
trouble ’round here, ’nd don’t you never tell nobody 
that you stole a horse on this range ’nd got away!” 

The boy showed signs of breaking down, but Bob 
Thompson said to him kindly, “There, now, kid, 
come on,” and led him toward the house. 

As they passed the stables Young came out lead- 
ing the horse, Whitefoot, bridled and with the boy’s 


NED LONG 


85 


blanket strapped on him. The hoy tried to say some- 
thing to him, but broke down sobbing. 

'‘There, Joe,” said Young, gently, “it’s all right. 
You’ve had a hard time of it to-day. Now, this horse 
is yours. Here’s a short bill of sale for him in case 
anybody should stop you again. His name’s White- 
foot, but he answers to White for short. I want you 
to take care of him, and of yourself. You’ll find an 
empty house with a haystack near it about five miles 
down the road. You’d better camp there to-night 
and give the horse plenty of hay. Here’s some change 
to help you along.” 

“I have money,” said the boy. 

“The boys give him some,” said Bob. 

“All right, then,” said Young. “Now, good-by 
and 'take, care of yourself. You’ll come out all 
right.” 

In strange contrast with the defiant young desper- 
ado who had dared them to hang him a short while 
before was the utterly collapsed boy who rode slowly 
away. 

After watching him for a short distance Young 
said to Thompson: 

“If you have a fresh horse that you’ll let me take, 
I believe I’ll ride home to-night.” 

“You can have a dozen horses if you want them,” 
said Thompson, “but we’d like to have you stay over 
with us.” 


86 


THE LAEGEE FAITH 


‘^Thank you, but my family will miss me,” said 
Young, smiling. 

Before he started, all the men shook hands with 
Young, most of them silently. Thompson said: 
“Never mind about bringin’ that horse back; we 
don’t need him, ’nd some of us’ll be up your way be- 
fore long ’nd get him.” 

DooHn walked a little distance by the side of 
Young’s horse, and as the two shook hands before 
separating, said: “By God, Young, you done the 
right thing again; it won’t do to get out, though, 
that we let the kid go.” 

“You all did the right thing,” said Young. “My 
word for it, you’ll not be sorry.” 

As for himself. Young always looked upon his 
lonely ride home in the moonlight that night as one 
of the happiest experiences of his life. He spent the 
next day in his usual routine, and a little after dark 
was in his sitting room reading when there was a 
timid knock at his door. On opening the door he 
saw standing there the boy Joe with rolled-up 
blanket in his hand, just as he had when he first ap- 
peared at the cabin. 

“Why, Joe, I thought you were on your way to 
Texas,” said Young. “Come in.” 

The boy entered with a hesitating step and an ap- 
pealing look in his eyes. 

“Your horse is in the stable,” he said. “I couldn’t 


NED LONG 87 

take him — from you — that way — after what Fd 
done.” 

He paused and tried to swallow a lump in his 
throat. 

wanted to tell you — I never meant to take your 
horse — I couldn’t ’ve done it — after what you’d done 
for me. I didn’t mean to steal the horse from any- 
body — hut I had no right to ride him so far, hut if 
Fd knowed he was your horse I wouldn’t ’ve touched 
him only to pet him, when he come up to me.” 

Young listened in silence, looking intently at the 
boy. 

H wish you could believe me, Mr. Young,” said 
the hoy, after a pause. ‘Td rather have you believe 
me than — anything.” 

do believe you, Joe,” said Young. 

“Thank you!” said the boy, with a sigh of relief. 

After a little pause Young said: “And now, if you 
will, I wish you’d tell me one or two things — ^you 
needn’t unless you want to do so. Are your folks ex- 
pecting you in Texas?” 

“I meant to tell you the truth about that, too,” 
said the boy. “I haven’t got no folks in Texas. I 
live up in Colorado and run away from home. My 
real name’s Ned Long — Edward’s my first name, but 
they always call me Ned.” 

“Why did you run away?” asked Young. 

“My stepfather whipped me and abused me every 


88 


THE LAKGEK EAITH 


way,” answered the boy. “I run away once before 
and he took me back home and licked me with a 
quirt — worse than any horse.” 

Seeing Young’s intent gaze fixed on him, the boy 
thought his statements were doubted. 

‘‘I want you to know I’m telling the truth,” he 
said. “Look at my back.” 

Hastily unbuttoning his woolen shirt, he grasped 
the collar and pulled it down, exposing the upper 
part of his back. Young took one look and turned 
pale. 

“Did your mother know this?” he asked. 

“My mother’s been dead two years,” said the boy. 

“How long has your father been dead?” asked 
Young. 

“Since I was five years old,” answered the boy. 

After a few minutes Young asked: “How would 
you like to stay here?” 

“Eight along? Oh, I’d like rt> — if you only had 
work for me so you could let me stay! I’d do any- 
thing to get to stay here!” exclaimed the boy. 

“Then it is settled; you will stay,” said Young. 
The boy showing signs of being troubled again with 
the lump in his throat. Young added in a cheerful 
tone: “This will begin a new life for you, and you’d 
better start out by taking a hot-water bath. When 
you take off your clothes put them in the stove — 
everything you’ve been wearing but the shoes. I’ll 


NED LONG 


89 


give you some of mine to put on in the morning. 
They^ll do till I get to town.” 

As Young was passing into the sitting room to 
give the hoy an opportunity to wash himself he 
paused at the door and turning to the hoy asked: 

“Do you feel safe here, Ned?” 

“Yes, sir, I do,” answered Ned. 

“Then I want you to dismiss all fear of everybody 
and everything — to-night — now. Let your fear go 
into the stove with your old clothes. Will you do 
this for me and for yourself?” 

“I’ll do anything for you,” answered Ned. “I will 
not he afraid.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


DAVID WINTER. 

There was a vacancy in the pastorate of the First 

Presbyterian church in the city of C , the former 

pastor. Dr. Leighton, having resigned to accept a 
similar position in a larger and wealthier church of 
the same denomination, and which, incidentally, paid 
a considerably larger salary than he had been get- 
ting. 

For several years Dr. Leighton had been regarded 
as a rising man in the Presbyterian ministry. He 
was an eloquent preacher and his congregation took 
pride in him. True, some hypercritical persons 
thought his pulpit manner too studied, his gestures 
and elocution somewhat stagy and affected, but his 
ability was generally conceded. One of the denom- 
inational colleges had conferred upon him the title of 
D. D. while he was yet a young man, which made 
his congregation still more proud of him. During 
his pastorate he had by his eloquence and zeal per- 
suaded the congregation to erect a splendid church 
edifice, which, when completed, was covered by a 


DAVID WINTER 


91 


mortgage representing something more than half the 
cost of the building and the ground on which it 
stood — a favorite modern method of keeping church 
members constantly reminded that they owe some- 
thing to the cause and that the Lord loveth a cheerful 
giver. 

The church was duly dedicated to the service of 
God, the cushioned pews in the large auditorium be- 
ing completely filled with well-dressed people. The 
services on this occasion were impressive and the 
sermon preached by the pastor was generally com- 
mented upon by the members of the congregation as 
one of great power. 

What endeared Dr. Leighton to his people above 
all things else was the fact that he was strictly or- 
thodox. What the articles of faith of his church set 
out, he preached; what the creed specified, he upheld 
and defended with all the force and skill of a trained 
advocate. He abhorred heterodoxy. 

But he had resigned and was gone, leaving as a 
monument of his labors the finest church edifice in 
the city; also the mortgage resting upon it. Most of 
the members of the congregation looked upon his 
going as a serious loss to the church, and felt sure 
his place could not he entirely filled. 

For some time the pulpit was filled by ‘^supplies” 
— ministers who could be secured for one Sunday at 
a time, and a few gentlemen had been asked to come 


92 


THE LAKGEK FAITH 


and preach trial sermons, but as yet no call had been 
extended to any of them. 

Finally the Eev. David Winter was invited to preach 
a trial sermon. It is a wonder that these trial ser- 
mons are ever followed by the employment of the 
man who preaches one of them. For not only is the 
sermon itself closely followed and dissected, but the 
preacher’s every movement, his voice, his gestures, 
how he handles his handkerchief, the way his hair 
is combed, his manner of closing the bible — all these 
things and many others are closely watched, criticised 
and discussed. 

However, the trial sermon of Eev. Mr. Winter 
proved acceptable to those who heard it. At any 
rate, the church extended to him a call to become 
its regular pastor, and he removed his family to the 

city of C and entered upon his pastorate a few 

months after his predecessor had left. 

The family consisted of a wife and three children. 
Mrs. Winter was a woman of refinement and of tact, 
well fitted both by nature and education to aid her 
husband in the varied and often perplexing duties 
which a minister is called upon to perform. The 
eldest child, a boy sixteen years of age, in his char- 
acter contradicted the prevailing opinion that all 
preachers’ sons are bad boys. John Winter was, like 
his father, a gentleman. The two younger children 
were girls aged respectively ten and twelve years, and 


DAVID WINTER 


93 


they were healthy, hearty, average children. The 
family was well received in church and society cir- 
cles, and it is only necessary to add that during their 

residence in the city of C no personal objection 

was ever made against any of them from the head of 
the family to the youngest child. 

Eev. Mr. Winter was fifty years old, of medium 
height, slender build, and with a head and face im 
di eating intellectuality and strength of character. 
While not presenting the appearance of a robust man 
or one of great physical strength, his kindly, bright 
blue eyes were indicative of health and an active 
spirit. He was a college-bred man, and had been 
preaching since he was twenty-five years of age. He 
was thoroughly a Christian, exemplifying in his 
every-day life what he preached. 

Shortly after his removal to the city of C he 

became connected with the local charity organiza- 
tions and continued to be an officer in them during 
his stay in that city. 

When, as a young man, David Winter first entered 
the ministry he was something of a stickler for the 
creed of his church. He prepared and delivered 
many able sermons expounding the doctrines of his 
denomination. He took both pride and pleasure in 
discussing close points of dogma and in making fine 
distinctions. But in his twenty-five years of preach- 
ing he had learned a good deal. His belief in the es«. 


94 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


scntial truths of Christianity had in nowise become 
weakened, hut he no longer took either pride or 
pleasure in discussing or expounding hair-splitting 
points of mere doctrine, i He had developed spirit- 
ually. He liked to dwell on God as the Eternal Father 
and as a kind and loving parent. He liked to preach 
the teachings of Jesus Christ. There was in his ser- 
mons more of love and less condemnation than be- 
fore. He had seen many people, and especially young 
people, kept out of the church, and even professing a 
disbelief in religion itself, because they refused to ac- 
cept doctrines some of which had now become ob- 
solete even with the ultra orthodox. He conceived it 
to be his duty to draw rather than attempt to drive 
people to Christ. This was his state of mind when 
he entered upon the pastorate of the First Presby- 
terian church at C . 

The attendants at the church were moderately ap- 
preciative of his sermons. As has been said, a con- 
siderable portion of the congregation had a settled 
conviction that no preacher who might come would 
or could altogether till Dr. Leighton’s place. Still, 
most of them liked Mr. Winter’s preaching, and 
many of them learned to love the man. There was 
nothing theatrical about his pulpit manner or his 
utterances. Both in and out of the pulpit he was 
modest and unassuming, and his manner and words 
were simple and direct. Withal he was full of energy 


DAVID WINTEB 


95 


and ever ready to go anywhere to lend a helping hand 
or say a needed word. 

The church debt began to make itself felt. Not 
only had no part of the original debt been paid, but 
interest had been allowed to accumulate, and one un- 
godly creditor had threatened to foreclose his mort- 
gage unless the interest were kept paid up. The 
finance committee had a few words to say on several 
Sundays before the congregation was dismissed. They 
said them, but their words failed to bring the de- 
sired result. In the church were several persons con- 
sidered wealthy, who, at the time of building the 
church, had subscribed and paid liberal sums and all 
they felt able to give, with the distinct and express 
understanding that they should not be called upon 
for any more money for that purpose. Some of the 
officers of the church suggested to Mr. Winter that as 
a stranger to the contract he go to these members and 
ask them for money on the church debt, at the same 
time explaining why they ,could not go themselves. 
Mr. Winter flatly refused. Then the church authori- 
ties asked him to preach a special sermon calculated 
to raise the needed money. This was not just the 
kind of sermon he liked best to preach or in which 
he appeared at his best. As a debt-raiser, one of the 
professional hustlers who go about raising church 
debts, it must be acknowledged the Rev. David Win- 
ter would probably not have proved an eminent sue- 


96 


THE LARGER FAITH 


cess. Still, he preached the asked-for sermon, and 
still the debt remained unpaid. 

Now, it is a fact in natural history that all persons 
do not enjoy being continually dunned for money, 
even at church. Some of the attendants at this 
church, wearied by the importunities for money 
which seemed to them to form a principal feature of 
every service, began to remain away, which made the 
burden all the greater on those who stayed — or, prop- 
erly speaking, on those who remained faithful. The 
membership of the church had not materially in- 
creased since the advent of Mr. Winter. The at- 
tendance was undoubtedly diminishing. Among the 
members of the church there began to spread a spirit 
of unrest. Like the boy who ate too much mince 
pie, they were out of sorts with themselves and didn’t 
know why. A sort of dyspeptic feeling was pervading 
the church. The truth is, that being called upon to 
pay interest on a hopeless debt is not necessarily an 
aid to spirituality. Debt is not always conducive to 
spiritual growth and development. 

David Winter was a close and experienced observer 
of human nature, especially as it manifests itself 
among church members. He saw with anxiety and 
with many misgivings the indications we have out- 
lined. He was the spiritual leader and guide of that 
people and he fully realized the responsibility of his 
position. Was he doing his full duty to them? Might 


DAVID WINTEK 


97 


it be that in some respect he was falling short? For 
w^eeks the problem was constantly with him. He 
prayed fervently for spiritual light, for greater power 
to do for his flock all that the Master would have 
him do. In his sermons he made every effort to 
arouse in his hearers the spirit of love and thus dispel 
the discontent and lassitude which he felt were steal- 
ing over the members of his church. In his experi- 
ence as a minister never had he been so perplexed and 
so vexed in spirit; never had he labored so hard and 
so earnestly. For months he devoted every energy of 
every waking hour in the endeavor to stem the tide 
which he felt was rising against the welfare of his 
church. His difficulty was increased by the fact that 
his physical strength, which heretofore had been al- 
ways equal to any call made upon it, began to give 
way under the strain. In his great anxiety to do his 
full duty his energetic nature had prompted him to 
overwork himself. 

This was the state of affairs when one Thursday 
e’vening the church officers held a regular meeting at 
which the minister was expected to be present and 
preside. Mr. Winter noted with pleasure that there 
was an unusually full attendance, all the officers of 
the church being present save one whom he knew to 
be confined at home by illness. At last, thought he, 
the proper spirit was taking hold of the church. At 
last the discouraging and depressing conditions un- 


THE LARGEB FAITH 


98 . ; 

der which he had been laboring were beginning to 
change. 

After about an hour spent in routine business, and 
when Eev. Mr. Winter, thinking the meeting was 
about to break up, had asked those present to join 
him in prayer and had offered up a fervent prayer 
with more heartfelt thankfulness than he had been 
able to feel for a long time, one of the elders, after 
some hesitation, cleared his throat and said: 

“Brother Winter, there are some things we want 
to talk to you about.” 

Mr. Winter looked interrogatively at the speaker 
and was silent. 

“The fact is,” said the elder, “we haven’t felt sat- 
isfied with your preaching. Since you’ve been here 
3^ou have only made a passing reference once or twice 
to our articles of faith. Now, we look on our creed 
as the basis of the church, and it seems to us it ought 
to be expounded and explained more.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Winter, mildly and with a rising 
inflection. “Was there anything else?” 

“Yes, there is,” replied the elder, his face becom- 
ing slightly flushed. “We think the sermons you 
* preach are not orthodox.” 

“The one you preached last Sabbath,” spoke up am 
other, “on the text ^And God so loved the world’ 
seemed to imply that all persons may be saved. Now, 


DATTD WINTEB 


99 


that’s not according to the doctrine of the Presby- 
terian church.” 

^‘And listening to your other sermons, Mr. Win- 
ter,” said another, ‘^one couldn’t have told that they 
were preached by a Presbyterian minister at all.” 

‘‘Listening to some of them,” said a man back in a 
corner of the room, “I’d have thought they were 
preached by a Universalist or a Unitarian.” 

“It may be, brothers,” said Mr. Winter,“that I have 
not devoted as much attention to doctrinal points in 
my sermons as you think I ought to have done. I 
know I don’t devote so much time to them as when 
I w^as younger in the ministry. Still, I don’t think I 
have become unorthodox.” 

“Didn’t you say,” said one who had not yet spoken, 
“that the lesson to be learned from the story of Jonah 
and the whale is that when a man has a duty to per- 
form or is sent to do a thing, he should not turn 
aside, leaving the plain implication that the story it- 
self is not a statement of fact?” 

“Yes, I said that was the lesson I learned from the 
story of Jonah,” replied Mr. Winter. “The implica- 
tion is your own, but let it stand.” 

“Do you believe in infant baptism?” asked one of 
those present. 

“Yes, and I have practiced it during all my min- 
istry,” replied Mr. Winter. 

“Some of your sermons,” said one, “seem to leave 


100 


THE LARGER FAITH 


the impression that the heathen can be saved. Do 
you believe that?” 

‘‘I have tried,” said Mr. Winter, ‘‘to preach the 
gospel of Jesus Christ ” 

“It isn’t a question of the gospel of Jesus Christ,” 
spoke up a deacon who on weekdays was engaged 
in the loan business. “This is a Presbyterian church, 
and the question is whether you are orthodox — 
whether what you preach is Presbyterian doctrine.” 

“I understand,” said another, “that in the sermon 
you preached four weeks ago last Sabbath you ex- 
pressed a doubt as to the miraculous conception of 
Christ. I didn’t hear the sermon myself — I was out 
of the city — but one of the brothers said he so un- 
derstood you.” 

“My brothers,” replied Mr. Winter, with more feel- 
ing than he had before shown, “that is totally a mis- 
take. I do believe in the miraculous conception 
of Jesus Christ. I have always believed it, and I 
have never uttered a word, here or elsewhere, from 
which any person could fairly get any such idea aa 
you suggest.” 

^ They interrogated him as to his belief in the bible 
from Genesis to Eevelations; they wanted to know 
if he believed the story of the creation, and if the 
days mentioned in that recital were of the same 
length as the present days; they asked about Adam 
and Eve, and whether he believed in the responsi- 


DAVID WINTEB 


101 


. bility of the entire human race for Adam’s sin. They 
asked him if it was true that he had expressed a doubt 
of the correctness of the bible chronology showing 
the age of the earth to be six thousand years, and 
upon his replying that he had every reason to be- 
lieve the earth’s age to be more than twice six thou- 
sand years, they shook their heads, sighed deeply, 
and gazed at each other with countenances full ol 
sorrow. 

They asked him if he believed Joshua stopped the 
sun; if he believed the story of Shadrach, Meshach 
and Abednego; whether the book of Job was to be 
taken as a literal statement of historic fact. 

But it would perhaps be the shorter way to specify 
what they did not ask him. For full five hours, with- 
out having given him any intimation of their inten- 
tion to question him or that there was any sort of 
charge against him, they kept him in the pillory. 
Suffice it to say many other things they did and said, 
the which, if they were written in a book, would 
disgrace the name of the church, discredit the cause 
of Christ, drive into infidelity every young person 
who should read it, keep away from the church all 
who think or who have any sense of fairness, and 
bring into contempt the very name of religion it- 
self — if such proceedings could be imagined to have 
any relation to or connection with religion. ~f 

Throughout the ordeal the Kev. Mr. Winter — by a 


102 


THE LARGER FAITH 


strong effort, it must be confessed — ^retained com- 
mand of himself, was good-tempered and answered 
his carping critics gently and in a kindly spirit. But 
the effect of it all upon him in his then state of mind 
and of physical health, coming upon him as it did 
like a clap of thunder from a clear sky, can be im- 
agined. He slept none that night, and but little on 
either of the two following nights. On Sunday he 
looked haggard and careworn. It could be easily 
seen that he ought to be at home and in bed. But he 
preached — at least he tried to preach. 

The next day Darrell met him on the street and 
was shocked at his appearance. They had met short- 
ly after Mr. Winter’s arrival at C and had con- 

ceived a liking for each other. He was the one 
preacher with whom Darrell had ever had more than 
a passing or casual acquaintance. There was some- 
thing about Mr. Winter that drew the young man 
toward him. For the past year Darrell had been call- 
ing and spending a half-hour or an hour with the 
Winter family almost every week. The subject of re- 
ligion was not talked of between them. 

Darrell had noticed for some time that his friend 
was not looking as well as formerly, but he had never 
seen him looking so ill as to-day. Wishing not to be- 
tray too much of what was in his mind, he said as 
they shook hands: ‘You’re not looking quite up to 


DAVID WINTER 


103 


the mark in health, Mr. Winter. Are you feeling 
ill?” 

‘‘Yes,” replied the minister, “Fve just been calling 
on the doctor.” 

“What is the trouble, if I may ask?” said Darrell. 

“My greatest trouble is insomnia,” said the min- 
ister. “The doctor calls it exhaustion, and says I am 
on the verge of nervous prostration. He also says my 
lungs are affected. You know,” he added with a 
smile — and Darrell thought it was a ghastly smile — 
“the doctors are liable to make things appear worse 
than they are sometimes.” 

“Yes,” assented Darrell, “that is true — sometimes. 
What does the doctor prescribe?” 

“Absolute rest and quiet, in an arid climate, if pos- 
sible. He advises me to go to Colorado and live in a 
tent for a few months,” replied the minister. 

Darrell at once thought of Young’s ranch. “I 
know a good place,” he said, “but it isn’t in Colorado, 
nor exactly a tent. I don’t know whether arrange- 
ments can be made for you to stay there, but if you’ll 
let me I’ll find out within a few days.” He told his 
friend of the ranch, its situation and surroundings, 
but said little about Young, only that he was a bach- 
elor, living alone, and he thought Mr. Winter would 
find it a good place for his purpose, if Young would 
receive him. Mr. Winter replied that he would be 


104 


THE LARGER FAITH 


obliged if Darrell would write to Young and if pos- 
sible engage board for him for a few months. 

Mr. Winter’s congregation did not at all indorse 
what the officers of the church had done. On the 
contrary, as soon as the facts became known, the con- 
gregation got together, repudiated the action of the 
officers of the church, demanded their resignations 
and passed a strongly worded resolution expressing 
their confidence in and sympathy with the minister. 
But it was too late. Mr. Winter’s health was broken, 
and besides, he knew that if he stayed — and probably 
whether he stayed or went — there would be a fac- 
tional fight in the church. He was compelled to 
make his resignation peremptory, which he did. Then 
he prepared to get away to the west as soon as pos- 
sible. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE BISHOP. 

The feeling that Ned Long had toward Young was 
one of hero worship. Not only had Young shown 
him kindness when he was in distress, but he felt 
sure that but for Young’s unexpected interference he 
would have died an ignominious death. Then since 
he began living at the ranch he had learned to love 
Young, whose character was so simple, so unconven- 
tional and unassuming, and withal so full of good- 
will toward others that he seemed without any effort 
on his part to inspire the hearts of all who came near 
him with a love for himself. 

Xed Long’s affection for him was dog-like in its 
simplicity and entire unselfishness. There was noth- 
ing Ned would not have done or tried to do for him. 
One with a wide and accurate knowledge of human 
nature has said: ^^Greater love hath no man than 
this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” 
Judged by this standard, the love of Ned Long could 
not have been greater, for at any time he would will- 


106 


THE LARGER FAITH 


ingly — nay, cheerfully — have laid down his life for 
William Young. 

Their only point of difference arose from Ned’s 
persistence in wanting to do all the work. Young, 
however, quietly but firmly insisted on a fair division 
of what needed doing, and that each of them should 
do only his share. 

For the first time in his life Ned began to have a 
feeling of self-respect and to acquire self-confidence. 
When he had been at the ranch a few days. Young, 
having learned what advancement the boy had made 
in the way of acquiring an education, suggested to 
him the advantage of spending some time each day 
in study. Ned adopted the suggestion, and under 
Young’s tuition entered upon his studies with such 
zeal that he made surprising progress. 

Nor was the advantage all on the boy’s side. Young 
had never before attempted to teach a young person, 
and after keeping it up a few weeks he could not help 
feeling that he was deriving from it as much benefit 
as he was giving Ned. 

Young had insisted that his gift of Whitefoot to 
Ned stand as made, and had added to it a saddle and 
bridle. After learning by correspondence with the 
County court of the county in Colorado from which 
Ned had come that no guardian for him had ever 
been appointed, Young, after consultation with Ned, 
took him to the county seat and at Ned’s request, 


THE BISHOP 


107 


made in person to the County court, was duly ap- 
pointed guardian of the person and property of Ed- 
ward Long, minor. This was merely a matter of pre- 
caution, hut it served to give Ned a feeling of perfect 
security. 

Boh Thompson called at the ranch in December. 
He stared at Ned, hardly able to recognize in him the 
boy he had brought there two months before. How- 
ever, they shook hands, and no reference was made 
by any of them to the occasion of their becoming ac- 
quainted; but when Young and Thompson had re- 
tired to the sitting room and the boy was out of hear- 
ing, Bob remarked: man that can pick up a 

broncho out of the herd ’nd make a thoroughbred of 
him inside of two months is a tohable fair handler of 
live stock.” 

When they had talked for a time the conversation 
drifted to some of their mutual acquaintances, and 
Bob said: ‘^Sometimes I sort of feel like a steer that’s 
found a piece of good pasture that all the herd ain’t 
onto.” 

Not catching his drift. Young waited for him to 
proceed. 

''And sometimes,” continued Bob, "it seems to me 

maybe I ought to ,” and he paused, uncertain 

just how to express himself. 

"You feel like doing what you can to help others?” 
said Young. 


108 


THE LARGER FAITH 


thafs about the size of it, only I don’t seem 
to have much of a cinch on just how to go at it,” re- 
plied Bob. 

^^You have been at it for some time,” said Young. 
^There’s no doubt that your influence for good has 
gone out and has accomplished work that you haven’t 
dreamed of.” 

‘^Well, I hope none of the boys has been any worse 
on account of me, lately,” said Bob. 

“The right plan for all of us,” replied Young, “is, 
I think, to do our nearest duty day by day, and to do 
it as well as we know how. Be patient. When the 
time is ripe opportunities will come to each of us to 
do his appointed work.” 

Bob’s opportunity came to him sooner than he ex- 
pected, and in an unlooked-for way. It happened 
that’ on the second Sunday after his talk with Young 
ho met with eighteen or twenty cowboys and two or 
three ranchmen at a cattle ranch where cowmen were 
wont to meet occasionally for the sake of sociability 
and the exchange of views on matters of interest. 
After they had eaten dinner, the day being warm and 
pleasant, they had gathered in a circle outside the 
cabin, and were seated, some on the ground and others 
on benches, boxes and a few chairs, having a general 
talk on nothing in particular and occasionally passing 
a joke around. Bob was sitting on the end of an 
empty soap box. During a lull in the conversation 


THE BISHOP 


109 


some one on the opposite side of the circle said: “Why 
don’t you carry no gun any more. Bob?” Nearly all 
of those present had noticed the fact that Bob had 
not been carrying a gun of late, and they listened for 
his answer. 

“Well,” he replied, “the fact is I ain’t got no use 
for a gun. I don’t want to shoot nobody ’nd nobody 
wants to shoot me.” 

“Must ’ve got that from Bill Young, didn’t you?” 
asked one. 

“Yes,” said Bob, “I don’t mind sayin’ I got that 
from Bill Young. I’ve got a good deal from him 
that’s done me good.” 

“Bob’s been havin’ some long powwows with 
Young,” said one of the cowboys. 

“It’s a ten-to-one bet Young didn’t do him no 
harm,” said Sam McChesney; “he’s about as straight' 
haired as they make ’em.” 

This Sam McChesney was a big, burly, warm- 
hearted cowboy, alw^ays ready for a frolic or a fight. 
Ordinarily he chose the frolic, but at times a fight 
seemed decidedly preferable to him. One peculiarity 
of his was that only those well acquainted with him 
could tell which he had in mind, for the thought of 
either frolic or fight so pleased him that his face 
broadened into a bland smile. Still, his intimate ac- 
quaintances could detect a slight difference in the 


110 


THE LABGER FAITH 


smiles, and they regulated their conduct accord- 
ingly. 

‘‘Tell us what Young’s been givin’ you, Bob, that 
makes you lay away your gun,” said one. 

“If it’s any religious guff, don’t give it to us,” said 
a ranchman who took pride in being known as an 
atheist. 

“Hold on there, pardner!” said Sam McChesney, 
addressing the ranchman. “You’d better not get to 
ridin’ too fast till you’re sure which way the herd’s 
headin’. Me ’nd Bob here ’ve punched cows together 
for five years. I never had no kick cornin’ at him, 
but in the last year I’ve seen a change in him. He’s 
been a better cowpuncher; he’s been a better fellow 
to be with. We used to could bet on him — most of 
the time, but there was times when he was like the 
rest of us — a little uncertain. You can bank on him 
now every minute of the time. I suspicioned he was 
gettin’ it from Young, because he was gettin’ more 
like Young all the time — and that ain’t no bad way 
to be. I made up my mind I wanted to learn the 
game. I wanted to set in the first chance I got, for I 
believe it’s a winner.” 

“There’s where you chucked five aces the first dash 
out of the box, son Sam,” said Bob. “The game is a 
winner, a sure winner, ’nd I’d like to put you all on, 
I’ve win $500 out of it, besides feelin’ better than I 
ever did in my life before. I don’t claim to know all 


THE BISHOP 


111 


about it, but Fve got a cinch on some of it, and 
more’s cornin’ to me all the time. Ever since I 
started in at it things has been cornin’ my way. It 
makes a fellow feel as if he had lots of relations ’nd 
they was all friendly to him ’nd he liked all of them. 
He don’t feel no grudge against nobody, for he feels 
dead sure every one of the other fellows is doin’ the 
best he knows how. ^ He feels like treatin’ his horse 
as well as he can. You know how Bill Young is that 
way. He won’t see even a burro get the worst of it. 
He can go out on the range ’nd walk up to any horse 
or colt he owns — he don’t need to walk to ’em; they’ll 
come to him. Then how is he with men? How many 
nights has he stayed with us just to look after us like 
w^e was his own children when we was boozin’ ’nd 
buckin’ faro ’nd him not drinkin’ a drop nor playin’ 
a chip? Now, what makes a man act that way with 
men ’nd with horses ’nd with everything? I tell you 
what it is — it’s love. It sounds pretty queer to some 
of you, maybe, a cowpuncher bein’ in love with men, 
but it’s a God’s fact just the same. 

“We’ve all been thinkin’ that we was awful wicked 
’nd bound to go to hell unless we put on a long face 
’nd joined some church. We’ve been thinkin’ we 
w as all born bad, ’nd it was as natural for us to be bad 
as it is for a lot of Texas steeers to stick up their tails 
’nd stampede in a thunderstorm. It ain’t so. We was 
bom good, ’nd it’s easier to be good than not to. 


112 


THE LAEGER FAITH 


don’t mean the kind of good that white-neck- 
tied shorthorn from Indiana was talkin’ about at the 
revival meetin’ last winter. He meant all right, but 
he was on the wrong trail. The medicine he was 
peddlin’ was bad to take ’nd wouldn’t do what was 
claimed for it. 

^Tom over there says he don’t want to hear nothin’ 
about religion. But there ain’t no long-faced, win- 
ter-steer business about this kind of religion. It’s 
love. It’s the same feelin’ your mother had for you 
’nd you had for your mother. There ain’t nothin’ 
about it to make a man feel like a coyote after a four- 
foot fall of snow. 

‘‘There ain’t none of us but what believes in God, 
but we’ve always thought God was too far off for us 
to understand or know anything about. It ain’t so. 
God is right here, in us ’nd all about us ’nd a part of 
us. We can’t any more get away from God than we 
can from the air we breathe. 

“It’s the same with religion. It’s born in us. It’s 
part of us ’nd we can’t get away from it, ’nd we 
wouldn’t want to if we could. There ain’t no mourn- 
er’s bench business about it. All you’ve got to do 
is to let the light shine into you ’nd you’ll get there 
all right enough. You can try it for yourself ’nd you 
can tell every time whether it’s the right brand. If it 
makes you feel good toward everybody ’nd want to do 
everybody a good turn ’nd help everybody, then you 


THE BISHOP 


113 


can bet your saddle against a white chip it’s the 
straight goods. 

‘‘Just look into yourselves ’nd you’ll find that 
what’s inside, the thinkin’ part, cuts a lot more ice 
than the part that wears clothes. That’s the only 
sure-enough man. If you just let that part of you 
boss the job for awhile, you’ll find the sunshine ’ll 
seem brighter, the air ’ll seem better to breathe, the 
whole world ’ll seem a better place to live in ’nd life 
’ll seem a whole lot more worth livin’. The whole 
thing about it all is — love.’’^ 

Such a talk as this, coming from the source it did, 
was a matter of surprise and wonder to those who 
heard it. Perhaps none of them all was more sur- 
prised at it than Bob himself. He had never before 
attempted anything of this kind, and, although he 
had remained seated on the soap box throughout, he 
had as he proceeded shown fervor and become al- 
most eloquent. When he had ceased speaking most 
of his auditors remained silent and more or less 
thoughtful. A few expressed approval, while some 
others, including the ranchman, Tom, were disposed 
to sneer. But Bob Thompson was not exactly a fit 
subject of ridicule in that crowd. His personal cour- 
age was well known, while his loyalty to his friends 
was recognized by all who knew him. With most of 
those who heard him what Bob said “went” — at 


114 


THE LAEGER FAITH 


least, they knew he was sincere and would ‘^stay 
with it.” 

Finally Sam McChesney spoke up: “I tell you, fel- 
lows, what let’s do. I b’lieve Bob’s guessed it about 
right, for I’ve seen how this thing has worked on 
him. When I see apples on a tree I conclude that’s 
an apple tree. Let’s make Bob bishop of this round- 
up district ’nd get him to talk to us once in awhile 
when we can get together.” 

Most of those present evinced their approbation of 
the proposal with ^^That’s the stuff!” ‘‘Let ’er go!” 
“What’s the matter with Bishop Bob?” “He’s all 
right!” and similar exclamations. 

“Is there any objections to this here proposition?” 
asked Sam, looking around. 

“Then it goes,” he said, as no one responded. 

In some places and with some assemblies the ac- 
tion just recorded would have evinced a want of re- 
spect for the person on whom the title was conferred, 
but it was not so here. Beneath the jocularity of the 
proceedings was a desire to distinguish Bob and show 
him a mark of their consideration. 

Thus it was that Bob Thompson found his op- 
portunity and began his career of work for others 
among a class of men popularly supposed to be quite 
indifferent concerning the matters about which he 
talked to them. 


CHAPTER X. 


JOHN DOE. 

A new mining town presents some phases of life 
not met with in any other place. The population of 
such a town is necessarily composed of people who are 
anxious to make money quickly, some of them in- 
tending to do so by honest means, and a good many 
others who are not particular about the means so 
they get it. It is a heterogeneous population made up 
of contributions from many countries, states, cities 
and towns. The great body of the people are stran- 
gers to each other. Lots which one or two years be- 
fore could not have been sold for a dollar apiece now 
bring thousands, and are often bought and sold again 
the same day with a profit of hundreds and even 
thousands of dollars. The sounds of the hammer and' 
saw are heard on all sides. Wooden buildings spring 
up with almost magical rapidity and become occu- 
pied at once by tenants who pay fabulous rentals. A 
bank is opened and men stand in line and wait half an 
hour to get a chance to deposit their money. The 
postoffice, which, owing to what is termed red tape, 


116 


THE LARGER FAITH 


cannot be suddenly enlarged to meet exigencies, is 
simply overwhelmed with business. Everything goes 
with a whirl. At all hours of the day and night the 
streets seem full of men rushing hither and thither. 
The chase after the dollar seems to have superseded 
every other thought in the minds of all the people. 

Among the first to rush to these new towns are 
liquor sellers and gamblers. Every other door along 
the business streets is a saloon. In about half of 
these saloons are to be found games of one kind and 
another calculated to gather in the dollars of the un- 
wary. Professional gamblers and crooks of all kinds 
are to be found in great numbers, and they have or 
succeed in quickly establishing a sort of freemasonry 
among themselves. It thus occurs that these people, 
acting in concert, ahvays succeed in ^^running” a new 
mining camp, at least for a time. There is usually 
some recognized boss or ^^king’’ among them, who, by 
whatsoever means he may have attained to the throne, 
exercises for the time being a kingly power over the 
destinies of the place where he is located. 

In the latter eighties the mining town of G , in 

Colorado, was having a boom. Valuable ore had been 
struck and within six months there was a town of six 
to eight thousand inhabitants, situated on ground 
wholly uninhabited before. The fraternity of gam- 
blers and crooks at the time of which we are speak- 
ing was headed by a man known as Buck Brady, and 


JOHN DOE 


117 


it was well understood that the town was ^^run” by 
the Buck Brady gang. Persons accustomed to live in 
a community with ample police protection and where 
there is reasonable security for person and property 
can hardly realize the extent of the power exercised 
by the head of a gang under these circumstances. If 
a merchant or business man incurs the enmity of the 
gang he is in danger. It may be that he will be 
openly told to vamose the diggings — an order which 
he will be wise if he obeys; or it may be that without 
warning an accident will happen to him — it is likely 

to be a fatal accident. In the town of G at this 

time was a bartender named Phil Ditson^, who was 
understood to be a member of or at least to “stand in” 
with the Buck Brady gang. At this particular time he 
was filling the position of nightwatch in the Ked- 
light saloon. One morning between four and five 
o’clock some men walking on the street, among whom 
was a deputy sheriff, heard a revolver shot. The 
sound seemed to proceed from the Eedlight saloon. 
They arrived at the saloon, as they afterward testi- 
fied, about half a minute, or, at the most, a minute 
after the shot was fired. At a round table about 
fifteen feet from the end of the bar nearest the back 
door of the saloon stood a man holding in his hand 
a revolver, the smoke from which still filled the air 
about him. He was the only person to be seen in the 
room. The deputy sheriff took the gun from him 


118 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


without any resistance being offered, and said: 
^^Who’d you shoot at?” The man muttered as if to 
himself, ^^My chance to get even.” Just then there 
was an exclamation from a man who had walked 
around the end of the bar. There lay the body of 
Phil Ditson, the bartender, a pool of blood about his 
head. An examination showed a bullet wound just 
above the left eye. His death had evidently been in- 
stantaneous. On a shelf above and just back of where 
the body lay was a large revolver. The man who held 
the smoking revolver and who evidently had done the 
shooting presented the appearance of a tramp. His 
hair and beard were unkempt and his face bloated 
with whisky. Aside from the words muttered when 
the deputy sheriff first approached him he could not 
be induced to speak of the affair. He was put under 
arrest and locked up in the log cabin which served as 
a jail. 

That night a number of the Buck Brady gang got 
together to discuss the advisability of lynching the 
tramp who had shot Phil Ditson. The consensus of 
opinion among them was that they’d better go to the 
jail, take him out and string him up; but Brady him* 
self turned the tide by telling them he had been at the 
jail to look at the fellow; that the prisoner seemed 
rational on other subjects, but didn’t seem to realize 
that he had killed a man, and simply looked blank 
and wouldn’t talk when spoken to about it. Brady 


JOHN DOE 


119 


concluded that the fellow was off in the upper story 
and advised his followers, for business reasons, to let 
the law take its course. The fact was that of late 
Brady had observed indications of a growing disposi- 
tion among the decent element of the citizens to re- 
volt against a continuance of his rule. He knew the 
time would come, sooner or later, when he must move 
on, and he was anxious not to have his people do any- 
thing to hasten the coming of that time. 

Thus it occurred that the prisoner, by reason of 
circumstances beyond his control, escaped lynching, 
and after a preliminary examination was senr to the 
county jail in another town to await trial on the 
charge of murder. 

The body of Ditson was buried the day he was shot, 
in the new cemetery, most of the occupants of which 
had died, as Ditson did, with their boots on. After 
the removal of the body from the saloon the floor 
where he had fallen was scrubbed and business was 
not interrupted for more than an hour. At the end 
of a week the very name of the deceased would have 
been forgotten but for the fact that it appeared in 
the proceedings against the man who had shot him. 

The strictest inquiry that could he made under the 
circumstances failed to throw any light on the iden- 
tity of the prisoner. That of itself was not a very re- 
markable circumstance at that time and in that 
place. There were a good many people in the camp 


120 


THE LAKGEE FAITH 


who could not have been identified had they chosen 
to be silent concerning themselves. Occasionally a 
man died who, for all that could be learned of him, 
had been a stranger and absolutely without an ac- 
quaintance in the camp. Perhaps a few persons had 
known him for a brief time, but all they could tell 
about him was that he had been known by the name 
^‘Shorty” or ‘^Eed.” In such cases the body was 
buried, or at least put in the ground, and a month 
later the best detective agency could not have learned 
anything of the circumstances, for everybody would 
have forgotten all about them. 

From the time of his arrest the prisoner pursued a 
policy of absolute silence concerning himself and the 
offense with which he stood charged. He would talk 
about other things, but it was impossible to entrap 
him into any statement whatever on either of these 
two subjects. He was bound over as John Doe. Dur- 
ing the first few days of his incarceration he seemed 
to be suffering from extreme nervousness. He could 
not eat or sleep. He was easily startled. He walked 
about the narrow limits of his cell like a caged wild 
animal. 

When he had been in the jail three of four days in 
this condition a thought struck the sheriff. The man 
v/as off his whisky; perhaps he’d let down for a drink. 
Of course it wasn’t strictly according to law, but the 


JOHN DOE 


121 


authorities wanted to locate the prisoner. He would 
try it. He said to the prisoner: 

“How would you like a good square drink 

The look on the prisoner’s face convinced the sher- 
iff that he had guessed right. 

“I’ll get you a pint, or a quart if you want it, of the 
best whisky to be had if you’ll give up your name and 
tell where you’re from,” he said. 

For a moment he was sure he had won. John Doe 
began to answer. Then, with what seemed to be an 
effort, he turned away and preserved his silence. He 
couldn’t be tempted after that. 

At the end of a week his condition had improved. 
He had some appetite for food; he could sleep, and 
he was less nervous than he had been. From thsf^ 
time till his trial, which occurred two months after 
the homicide, he improved in both appearance and 
health. 

He was indicted as “John Doe, whose real name is 
unknown,” for murder in the first degree. When 
taken into court he was asked by the judge: “Have 
you engaged counsel to defend you?” 

“I have not,” answered the prisoner. 

“Have you any money or means with which to em- 
ploy counsel?” asked the judge. 

“I have not,” answered the prisoner. 

After glancing about the courtroom and then over 


1^2 


THE LARGER FAITH 


his docket the judge said: “I will appoint Mr. James 
Crow as your counsel.” 

The prisoner bowed. 

^‘Will you he ready to plead by to-morrow morn- 
ing, Mr. Crow?” asked the court. 

‘T have not yet examined the indictment, but 1 
think we shall be able to plead by that time,” an- 
swered the young lawyer. 

^^He will be arraigned in the morning, then,” said 
the court. ‘‘You can examine the indictment and 
consult with him in the meantime.” 

The prisoner was returned to the jail and soon 
thereafter his attorney called, having with him a copy 
of the indictment. The sheriff conducted them to a 
room in the corner of the jail, where they could talk 
in privacy. 

^^Now,” said Mr. Crow, ‘T wish you’d tell me the 
facts so that I can prepare a defense.” . 

beg your pardon,” replied the prisoner, ^^but I 
have nothing to say, even to you.” 

‘‘But, my God, man, they’re liable to send you up 
for life,” exclaimed Crow. don’t think from what 
I’ve heard that they can hang you, but they may do 
even that.” 

^‘Still, I have nothing to say,” said the prisoner. 

^^How do you expect me to defend you unless you 
tell me the facts?” asked Crow. 

'T don’t expect it. If you wish to talk with me, 


JOHN DOE 123 

Mr. Crow, let us change the subject,” said the pris- 
oner. 

In order to learn something of the man he had to 
deal with, Crow assented, and for some time they 
conversed on other subjects. Every attempt, how- 
ever, to get the prisoner to talk about himself or the 
homicide resulted in his quiet but polite refusal to say 
a word. 

Mr. James Crow was, as has been said, a young 
lawyer. This was his first murder case, and his ap- 
pointment had raised within his breast high hopes of 
being able to benefit himself, perhaps distinguish 
himself, and incidentally help the prisoner, by his 
conduct of the case. But here was an unheard-of 
state of affairs. However, he must find some way 
out or there wouldn’t be much chance for that elo- 
quent speech which he had already begun to formu- 
late. 

The next morning when John Doe was about to be 
arraigned his attorney said: “If your honor please, 
I am at a loss just how to proceed. The prisoner has 
refused to say a word to me about his case or himself. 
I will ask to have him examined as to his sanity.” 

“You can plead now if you are ready,” said the 
court, “and an examination can be made between now 
and the time set for trial.” So the indictment was 
read, the attorney entered a plea of not guilty, the 


124 


THE LARGER FAITH 


trial was set for the following Monday, and J ohn Doe 
was returned to jail. 

The physicians sent by Mr. Crow to examine into 
the sanity of the defendant reported him perfectly 
sane, and the next Monday morning the case of The 
People of the State of Colorado vs. John Doe was 
called for trial. 

Mr. Crow’s idea had been that the case would re- 
quire at least a week for trial. He expected to take 
up two or three days in getting a jury, for it was a 
murder case; then the putting in of evidence would 
take at least two days, for his cross-examination of 
witnesses would be made notable, and necessarily he 
long, and when it came to the argument he expected 
to occupy a full half-day, and perhaps a day. But 
things do not always turn out as expected, or even 
as they are planned. The jurors were provokingly 
ignorant of the case they were called to try. Hot one 
of them knew the defendant or had ever heard of the 
deceased. Most of them had never heard of the homi- 
cide. They were not related to counsel on either 
side, and they had no scruples of any kind against 
capital punishment — a point on which Mr. Crow was 
very insistent in his examination. 

After examining each juror as fully as he knew 
how, exhausting all his peremptory challenges, and 
showing much zeal, a jury was completed, accepted 
and sworn in a little before noon. 


JOHN DOE 


1»5 


Evidence substantiating the facts already stated 
was put in very briefly on behalf of the people. Mr. 
Crow tried to cross-examine each witness very ex- 
haustively, but in spite of all he could do the district 
attorney rested his case at the end of three hours. 
There being no evidence to offer on behalf of the de- 
fendant, the court delivered a charge to the jury and 
the district attorney had flnished his opening ad- 
dress to the jury when court adjourned that evening. 

Throughout the trial the defendant remained im- 
perturbable. There was nothing deflant about his de- 
meanor; he was simply calm, undemonstrative and 
apparently indifferent. 

The next morning Mr. Crow began an address 
which was to last till noon at the very least. The 
first half-dozen sentences of his speech — which he 
had memorized and carefully rehearsed — clearly dem- 
onstrated his superiority over the district attorney as 
an orator. When he had talked an hour he began 
to repeat himself; fifteen minutes later the jurors 
were getting uneasy in their seats. By the time he 
had consumed an hour and a half he had repeated 
himself many times and could not think of another 
thing to say, so he delivered himself of his carefully 
prepared peroration, thanked the jury for their close 
attention — which he hadn’t had for some time — and 
sat down without any of the murmurs of applause 
throughout the courtroom which he had imagined 


126 


THE LARGER FAITH 


would require the stern rebuke of the court to sup- 
press. The district attorney spent fifteen minutes in 
reply and asked the jury to return a verdict of murder 
in the second degree. The jury retired and hung for 
about seven minutes, when they returned with a ver- 
dict finding John Doe guilty of murder in the sec- 
ond degree. In justice to the defendant’s attorney it 
should be said that it is difiicult to make a cake with- 
out dough; and it may be added that it is sometimes 
just as well not to go through the motions of making 
the cake unless one has some dough to work on. 

Mr. Crow’s motion for a new trial was overruled 
and his client was sentenced to hard labor during the 
term of his natural life in the penitentiary at Canon 
City, to which place the sheriff shortly thereafter con- 
veyed him, where he became No. 3708. 

Before closing this account of the case of The Peo- 
ple of the State of Colorado vs. John Doe it may be 
remarked that Mr. James Crow is still practicing 
law, and to such eminence has he risen that his name, 
in an abbreviated form, is used to designate a class of 
practitioners and their kind of practice. 


CHAPTER XL 


TWO LETTERS. 

In the December following DarrelFs departure 
from the ranch Young received from him a letter, of 
which the following is a copy, omitting some minor 
points: 

Dear Sir: 

“Two reasons have prevented my writing sooner 
after the receipt of your favor of nearly two months 
ago. The first is that I have been very busy and absent 
from the city most of the time; the second is that I do 
not know just how to put in words and on paper what 
I want to say. 

“I shall have to beg your pardon in advance for 
making this so personal and so selfish a letter. It is 
about myself and for myself that I want your views. 

“To give you a full understanding of the situation 
it will be necessary for me to begin a good way back. 
My parents were both strict members of the Presby- 
terian church, and I was brought up in accordance 
with the doctrines of that church. As a child I had 
not a doubt that every word in the bible was the word 
of God, and, of course, literally true. 

“I continued in this state of mind and in a full and 


128 


THE LARGER FAITH 


entire belief in the bible till I was 16 or 17 years old. 
Then I began to have doubts, at first of the truth of 
parts of the old testament, then of the new; and after 
awhile I did not believe any part of the bible. Then 
there was a kind of reaction. I thought perhaps it 
■was true, or, at least, that part of it was true. After 
being in this state of mind for awhile I concluded I 
did not know, and could not find out anything about 
it. I quit thinking about the matter altogether and 
became an agnostic. All matters relating to religion 
were settled for me, I thought, by my settled agnos- 
ticism. This was my state of mind when I met you. 
Somehow, at your ranch, I began to doubt my doubts, 
if you can understand that. I began to question 
whether my state of universal doubt was the real an- 
swer — the right solution to the question. The more 
I thought of it, and of some things you said, the more 
I wanted to hear what you would say in answer to my 
questions, for it seemed to me you were satisfied in 
your own mind as to what is true. There was some- 
thing about you that convinced me you knew, or 
thought you knew, the real truth that I want to get. 

‘^When a very small child I tried to reconcile the 
statement that God is just with his act in condemn- 
ing the whole race on account of Adam’s eating an 
apple. I didn’t and couldn’t understand it, but sup- 
posed it would all be clear to me when I should grow 
older. The old doubts are upon me again. 

‘^What is true? Is the bible true? Is religion — I 
mean, of course, the Christian religion — true? If so, 
which denomination among the Christians is right? 
All these questions and a good many others growing 


TWO LETTERS 


129 


out of them are with me, and I am not able to settle 
them for myself. 

“Can you give me any light? 

Hi Hi H: 4: ♦ ♦ 

“I should like to look in on you and spend an even- 
ing with you at the ranch. 

“With the compliments of the approaching holiday 
season, I am yours respectfully, 

“John W. Darrell.” 

A few days after receiving the letter. Young an- 
swered it as follows: 

“My Dear Mr. Darrell: 

“From some remarks you dropped while here, I 
guessed the state of your mind. Your late letter would 
have been no surprise to me, even had you not stated 
in a former communication that you wished at a 
future time to get my views. 

“Permit me to suggest at the outset that the search 
for truth always necessarily involves a total self-sur- 
render, an absolute giving up of all selfish ideas, no- 
tions and plans, and a willingness to accept the truth 
when found, regardless of preconceived theories. 

“Every advance in knowledge, whether in the line 
of what we call the natural sciences or in spiritual 
truth, is at first looked upon as an innovation and an 
intrusion. The man who first declared the earth to 
be spherical was regarded as a crank; so was the in- 
ventor of the electric telegraph, of the steamship, and 
of nearly every other innovation on established no- 
tions. As with these persons and their work in 


130 


THE LARGER FAITH 


physical science, so it has been with those who first 
advocated any advance in thought, and especially in 
religious thought. Jesus Christ was killed because His 
teachings conflicted with the existing opinions and es- 
tablished customs of the time in which He lived. 

^‘Your letter shows me that you have fallen into the 
most common of all errors in the consideration of 
questions relating to religion. You have confused re- 
ligion with orthodoxy. Religion and orthodoxy are 
not only different things — they are opposite things 
and antagonistic the one to the other. They act from 
entirely different motives, so to speak. They spring 
from entirely different sources. Orthodoxy is my doxy. 
It is the faith which I and those who agree with me hold 
on religious questions. Orthodoxy recognizes no truth 
outside its own teachings, no road to heaven but the 
one fenced in by its creed — a fence which can be 
neither crawled under, climbed over nor broken 
through, in which there are no gates, save those 
swinging outward and having no handles on the out- 
side. To be orthodox one must start in at the begin- 
ning of the road, continue to the end, and be more 
careful than a Colorado miner to keep within the side- 
lines. 

‘‘Religion never incited a war, conducted a crusade, 
fought a battle or held an inquisition on the faith of 
any person. Orthodoxy has done all these things in 
the name of religion. Religion never put a human 
being to death. Orthodoxy has killed untold thou- 
sands. 

“Orthodoxy murdered J esus Christ because he was 
unorthodox. It killed a few hundred people in this 


TWO LETTERS 


131 


country and a great many thousands across the ocean 
on the charge of witchcraft. It conducted the Span- 
ish Inquisition. 

^^All these crimes and nameless others orthodoxy 
has committed in the name of religion. It has at dif- 
ferent times and in different places assumed to be 
every known form of religion, not excepting that 
founded by the great Nazarene, one of whose precepts 
was ‘Judge not that ye be not judged." 

“Orthodoxy still masquerades under the name of re- 
ligion. It is the spirit of intolerance, the child of 
bigotry and hate. Its refuge is hypocrisy; its chief 
weapon is cant. It is of the nature of the brute seek- 
ing to obtain dominance and mastery by force. 

“Eeligion is the conscious knowledge of man’s re- 
lationship to God. It is, indeed, the very spirit of God 
— universal — all-pervading love — made manifest in 
man. Eeligion attracts, but never seeks to drive. 

“I have said thus much, not for the purpose of con- 
demning the orthodox, but to point out as clearly as 
I can the distinction between religion and orthodoxy 
and the line of demarcation which separates them. 

“Fifty years ago it was very generally preached that 
there was a literal hell of fire and brimstone, into 
which a large part of the human race would be cast, 
there to suffer eternal torture; and any one who de- 
clared a disbelief in that doctrine was denounced as an 
infidel. To-day there cannot be found an enlightened 
preacher who believes in or preaches that doctrine. 
To an extent which can hardly be comprehended now, 
especially by the younger people, that sort of teach- 
ing was then supposed by many good people to be re- 


132 


THE LARGER FAITH 


ligion. Why? Because orthodoxy was posing in the 
name of religion then as it is now, and that was what 
orthodoxy then taught. 

‘‘Is it strange that the counterfeit, the miserable 
caricature which at various times — and even within 
forty or fifty years — has passed for the Christian re- 
ligion should drive so many people into what has been 
termed infidelity? Is it not surprising, rather, that 
those man-made creeds, dogmas and articles of faith, 
embodying as they do the most absurd interpretations 
of the bible, should have had any believers or pre- 
tended believers? 

“But there is no caricature without an original. 
There is no counterfeit until there has been some- 
thing genuine to counterfeit. The bible, taken as a 
whole, is, in my opinion, the greatest of all books, and 
the one which the world could least afford to lose. It 
is a marvelously complete representation of humanity 
— of the human heart and the human soul — not the 
heart and soul of some ancient and distant people, but 
your own and mine — of the people of to-day. Every 
human passion is portrayed; every longing, every de- 
sire, every aspiration, is analyzed and set forth; every 
phase of human character is described. Starting with 
Adam, the earth man, the lowest type, and culmi- 
nating in J esus Christ, the highest type the world has 
known, the bible, in its comprehensive delineation of 
human character, its unequaled representations of the 
working of the human soul, its vast compilation of 
the highest spiritual truth, and the majestic grandeur 
of its language, is unequaled and unapproached by 
any other book. 


TWO LETTERS 


133 


^^But you ask if it is true. Is it inspired? Truth is 
of God, is eternal, and is so wherever you find it, 
whether in the hible or the writings and sayings of 
Plato, Thomas Carlyle or Emerson. The hible is true 
to each person to just the extent that he can discover 
truth in it; so is any other book. A study of the bible 
will enable any thoughtful person to discover more 
and more truth in it all the time. Nothing is true to 
you which you cannot comprehend or understand in 
some measure, at least. For instance, a book printed 
in a language wholly unknown to you could have in 
it no truth for you, though to one who understands 
and could read the language it might be full of truth. 

^^Viewed merely as statements of historical fact, the 
account of creation in Genesis is absurd and meaning- 
less; so is the story of Adam and Eve and their fall; so 
are the accounts of the ark, of Jonah, of Joshua and 
of the sun standing still; and yet it is but a short time 
since the orthodox world was up in arms against any 
man who refused to accept these stories as literally 
true — who took the same view of them, in short, 
which is now taken by a majority of orthodox preach- 
ers. I suppose there never was such a man as Job, or, 
at all events, one who went through just the experi- 
ences accredited to him; but the Book of Job has been 
a help to thousands, and, as a man grows older, he is 
able more and more to appreciate it and be benefited 
by it. The Book of Job is by no means to be regarded 
as a lie simply because it is not a literal statement of 
historical fact. 

^As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he,’ is a 
truth which always existed and always will exist. It 


134 


THE LARGER FAITH 


is true, not because it is in the bible; for it was true 
before it was put in the bible, and would have been 
equally true if it had not been in the bible. ^Except 
ye become as little children ye cannot enter into the 
kingdom of heaven’ simply expresses an eternal fact 
v/hich always existed, and would always have been 
true independently of its being given utterance by 
J esus Christ. 

‘‘If in the story of Jonah you can see nothing but 
the incredible literal statement that a great fish swal- 
lowed a man and after three days threw him out on 
dry land alive and well, there is no valuable truth for 
you in the whole story; if in the majestic statement 
‘And God said. Let there be light, and there was 
light,’ you can see nothing but the sudden manu- 
facture and putting into operation of an immense 
light plant, there is nothing in, that which is of any 
use to you. 

“Let me suggest to you not to trouble yourself 
about your salvation. It is simply a question of letting 
yourself be- saved; and salvation comes in this life — 
not in the next. Heaven is a condition — not a location. 
All may achieve that condition at once. It exists for 
us all now. Salvation is not a matter of groanings and 
regrets, but only of recognizing our true relationship 
to all life, to all nature, to God. 

“God’s great love surrounds us and is part of every 
human being. We can no more escape from it than 
we can escape from the atmosphere. It is a living, 
existing, omnipresent fact. It is the element in which 
we live; the very essence of all life. As man recog- 


TWO LETTEES 


135 


nizes this he comes into a knowledge of his true rela- 
tion to the Infinite. 

‘^Dismiss all fear; get rid of the notion that you 
were horn sinful and have a tendency to he sinful; 
keep in mind the one fundamental truth of God’s ever- 
present love, and all questions which now trouble you 
will vanish away, and be as if they had never existed. 
Yours very truly, Wm. Young.” 


CHAPTEE XII. 


DICK BRIGGS. 

On one of the principal streets of the little city of 

E , situate on the Ohio shore of Lake Erie, there 

was a ripple of excitement one August afternoon. A 
young man of eignteen or nineteen had suddenly and 
violently struck in the face a man considerably older 
and larger than himself, and his act resulted in what 
w'as, w^hile it lasted, a very lively pugilistic battle be- 
t^veen the two. A crowd quickly gathered, but for a 
time no one interfered. The younger man seemed to 
have overrated his own ability as a pugilist, or to 
have misjudged that of his antagonist. Although he 
had drawn first blood at the outset, the older one 
was rapidly demonstrating his superiority as a fist 
fighter when a policeman appeared, stopped the fight, 
put both men under arrest and started wdth them for 
the police station. 

The older man, aged somewhere in the forties, was 
dressed in well-fitting clothes of a flashy, loud pat- 
tern, and wore a silk hat pulled low over the eyes. 
His close-shaven face had a hard, set expression, and 


DICK BRIGGS 


137 


in connection with his dress proclaimed a man who 
had probably seen many horse races, prize fights, and 
other games of a quieter but equally exciting char- 
acter. He was still furious at the assault made on 
him and anxious to continue the task of demolishing 
his assailant, which he had well under way when in- 
terrupted by the policeman. The younger of the 
combatants, though bleeding from various face blows 
and showing other marks of the encounter, was far 
from being subdued, and hotly expressed the wish that 
the bluecoat would turn the two of them loose to- 
gether in some back lot for a short time and take 
them to the station house afterward. 

Arrived at the police station, whither they had been 
followed by three or four men, they were allowed first 
to wash their faces, both of which were bleeding, and 
then were conducted to the desk of the sergeant in 
charge, where their names were taken and the charge 
of disturbance and fighting put opposite each. When 
asked if they could furnish bail for their appearance 
next morning, both answered that they could by send- 
ing word to their friends. At this moment a man, 
who, with the others, had followed the officer and his 
prisoners to the station, stepped forward and said 
quietly: will become surety for this young man.’’ 

^^All right, Mr. Horton,” said the sergeant, looking 
up at the speaker, and filling out a recognizance he 
pushed it over the desk to be signed. While the bond 


138 


THE LARGER FAITH 


was being filled out the young man had looked curi- 
ously at the man the sergeant had addressed as Mr. 
Horton. He was a tall man, thirty or thirty-two years 
of age, with rather a pale face and something of re- 
serve in his manner. When the young man had 
signed the bond Mr. Horton, before attaching his sig- 
nature, noted that the name of the accused was Rich- 
ard T. Briggs. 

As they left the police station together, the young 
man said: “Fm obliged for the favor you’ve done 
me in standing good for my appearance in the morn- 
ing, but if you know me you have the advantage 
of me.” 

^‘1 don’t think we ever met each other before, Mr. 
Briggs, but I was passing and heard what that fellow 
said when you hit him, and while I might not have 
done just what you did, it needed doing,” said the 
older man, at the same time handing the other his 
card. 

^^Oh, you’re Frank Horton, editor of the Gazette,” 
said Briggs, looking at the card. ‘Tve known of 
you, but had never met you.” 

As they separated Horton said: ^^I’ll be at the po^ 
lice court in the morning and see how you come out.” 

When Richard T. Briggs stood up in court the next 
morning his face was adorned with sundry strips of 
court-plaster. 


DICK BEIGGS 


139 


You’ve been fighting again?” said the police 
j Lidge, gazing sternly at the young man. 

‘‘Yes,” answered Briggs. 

“Did you begin it?” asked the judge. 

“Yes,” said Briggs, glancing at the man with 
whom he had the trouble, “I hit him first.” 

“What for?” asked the magistrate. 

“For making an insulting remark about a woman 
that was crossing the street,” answered Briggs. 

“Did you know the woman?” said the judge. 

“No, I didn’t,” answered Briggs, “but anybody 
could see she was a lady.” 

“If your honor will permit me,” said Frank Hor- 
ton, stepping forward and addressing the judge, “I 
want to say that I was passing just at the time of the 
trouble, and heard the remark that fellow made. It 
was most vile and indecent, and I felt like doing just 
what Mr. Briggs did. I happen also to know the lady 
against whom the remark was directed.” 

“That’s all right, Mr. Horton,” said the magistrate, 
“but Briggs here has got to get rid of the notion that 
he’s the general guardian of society and that the way 
to regulate things is with his fists.” Then looking at 
Briggs he said: “This is the second time you’ve been 
here inside of a year, and the other charge was about 
the same as this.” 

“Yes, judge,” assented Briggs. 

suspended sentence before,” continued the 


140 


THE LARGER FAITH 


judge; ^‘^now I think you need a lesson that’ll make 
you quit this.” 

^^Can’t help it, judge,” said Briggs. ‘^I’d have hit 
the loafer if I had to go to the penitentiary for it the 
next minute.” 

^^I’ll make this $10 and costs,” said the magistrate, 
want to pay that as my contribution toward 
what the fellow got,” said Horton, stepping forward 
and taking out his pocketbook. 

‘‘Not too fast, Mr. Horton,” said the judge, and, 
looking at Briggs, he continued, “This sentence stands 
suspended during good behavior. Now, get out of 
here, and see that you don’t come back.” 

“Thanks, judge,” said Briggs. 

“Go!” replied the magistrate. 

When Briggs had left the courtroom in company 
with Horton, the case of the other of the two fight- 
ers was taken up. 

“What’ve you got to say for yourself?” asked the 
police judge. 

“Why, judge, I didn’t do a thing but defend my- 
self,” said the man. “That kid hit me in the eye 
without any warning.” 

“You had made an insulting remark about a 
woman?” asked the magistrate. 

“Well, I s’pose there’s no law against a man mak- 
ing a remark,” said the man. “It wasn’t loud enough 
for her to hear.” 


DICK BRIGGS 


141 


^Twenty-five dollars and costs,” said the judge. 

^‘But, judge ” began the man. 

“Pay up or go below,” interrupted the judge. “Pll 
send you to the rock pile if you ever come back.” 

With a feeling that his rights as an American citi- 
zen had been invaded, the man drew from his pocket 
a roll of bills, stripped from the outside the necessary 
amount to pay his fine and costs, and left the court- 
room with his hat pulled lower than ever over his 
eyes. 

“Pm much obliged to you, Mr. Horton,” said 
Briggs when he and his companion left the court- 
room. “It was what you said that made the old man 
suspend sentence on me again.” 

“That’s all right,” replied Horton. “I’d have paid 
your fine willingly if the judge hadn’t suspended it.” 

As they parted from each other at a street corner 
Horton said: “Drop in and see me, any time. You’ll 
find me at the Gazette office in the afternoons.” 

“Thank you. I’ll do it,” replied Briggs. 

Though the two men were dissimilar in their dis- 
positions and habits as they were in age, the acquaint- 
ance thus begun ripened into a friendship between 
them. Eichard Briggs — known to all his acquaint- 
ances as Dick — was athletic, full-blooded and some- 
what impulsive and impetuous in disposition. He was 
warm-hearted and generous, and especially chivalrous 
toward all womankind. He idolized his mother and 


142 


THE LARGER FAITH 


had never gotten over the notion that his sister 
Maude, who was five or six years his junior, was still 
a baby and to be watched over and petted accordingly. 

His brother Tom was four years older than Dick, 
and so different in every way that, while the two had 
always been on good terms, they were never very com- 
panionable. Tom was engaged with their father in a 
drug store, and cared for nothing but chemistry and 
the drug business. The only recreation he ever took 
was an occasional half-day^s fishing on the lake. 

Frank Horton was studious and somewhat retired 
in his disposition, but not at all a recluse. He and 
Dick were not lacking in points of common interest, 
and each liked the other for qualities which he him- 
self did not possess, on the principle that 

“We like not best what most to self is twin. 

But that which best supplies the void within.” 

Dick, who kept a horse, often invited Horton to 
take a ride with him, and not infrequently he called 
and spent an hour or two at Horton’s rooms in the 
evenings. 

One afternoon Dick called at the Gazette office 
and found his friend alone. After salutations Hor- 
ton said: ‘T have to be out a little while. Do you 
want to keep shop for me? Or have you something 
else to do?” 


DICK BEIGQS 


143 


"Just as soon as not,” replied Dick; "I’m not 
busy.” 

"All right, then,” said Horton. "I’ll he hack in- 
side of half an hour.” 

For awhile Dick looked over the exchanges in the 
office; then it occurred to him to write a letter while 
he waited. Seating himself on a round-topped stool 
at the desk he was engaged in his writing when a man 
entered, and, with more force than seemed to he neces- 
sary, inquired: 

"Where’s the man that runs this paper?” 

Before answering, Dick took a look at the man. 
He was a rough, hurly-looking fellow, carried a hlack- 
snake whip in one hand and looked belligerent all 
over. 

"I’m running it just now,” said Dick. 

"You ain’t the editor, be you?” said the man, ad- 
vancing threateningly. 

"Well, you may just take it for granted that I am 
if you have any business with him,” answered Dick. 

"Durned if I don’t give you a dressin’ down just for 
your impudence,” said the fellow, bringing down the 
blacksnake across Dick’s shoulders with a cut that 
would have raised a welt on a mule. A lighted match 
put to powder would not have brought action more 
promptly. With an oath Dick sprang at the fellow, 
striking him squarely in the mouth and knocking 
him back against the wall. The man, though badly 


144 


THE LARGER FAITH 


staggered, did not fall; and with bleeding mouth, sur- 
prised and enraged at being attacked by such a strip- 
ling, he made a rush for Dick, roaring out threats of 
vengeance. Dick, though much smaller than his an- 
tagonist, was much more active, and from long prac- 
tice had acquired a more or less deft use of his hands 
in such emergencies. For a short time he was able 
to avoid the clutches of his burly adversary and to 
place several blows in his face and neck. Seeing that 
he could not avoid being caught, Dick made a rush 
at his opponent and grasped him about the body, at 
the same time tripping him and throwing him back- 
ward. In the fall the man’s head struck the corner 
of a desk, cutting a gash in the back of the head and 
for a moment stunning him. 

As Dick got to his feet Horton entered the office. 
‘‘What’s all this about?” he exclaimed. 

“This fellow wanted to lick somebody ’nd I let 
him begin on me,” answered Dick, panting. 

As the would-be dresser-down of youthful impu- 
dence got to his feet he was a sorry sight. He no 
longer looked belligerent, nor did he appear to have 
any hostile intentions. 

“Who are you and what do you want?” demanded 
Horton. 

“I come to see the editor,” replied the man, as he 
wiped his face, “but — they ain’t no hurry about it.” 

“Did you come here for a fuss?” asked Horton. 


DICK BKIGGS 


145 


"Well, something of that kind,^^ replied the man; 
‘T^ut I didn^t s’pose you kept any young cattymounts 
like that ’round the place,” looking ruefully at Dick. 

"What is your name, and what’s your grievance?” 
asked Horton. 

"I don’t live here, and it ain’t no difference about 
it to-day,” answered the man, starting out of the 
office and leaving his whip lying on the floor. 

"It’s a good thing for you that the editor wasn’t 
in; I’m only his boy,” was Dick’s parting shot as the 
man went out of the door. 

"I suspect that’s a teamster named Botts from 
Smithfleld, ten miles below here,” said Horton. "The 
correspondent there gave him a roast in last week’s 
paper for abusing his family. I was told he threat- 
ened to come and clean out the office, but I didn’t 
think of it again.” 

"Well,” said Dick, "I’ll just hang this whip up as 
a souvenir. He’ll not come back for it — not 1^11 the 
hones of his nose grow together, anyhow.” 

"Did you break his nose?” asked Horton. 

"I’m pretty sure I felt the bridge go down when I * 
hit him the last time,” replied Dick. Then after a 
pause he added: "There won’t be any police-court 
racket about this mix-up. That’s one satisfaction.” 


CHAPTEE Xni. 


FKANK HOKTON. 

Is man the creature of circumstances, or are cir- 
cumstances the creations of man? Fatalists are able 
to adduce many facts in support of the theory that the 
fate of every human being is mapped out for him, and 
that he is little more than a conscious automaton ful- 
filling a destiny which he can neither alter nor escape. 
In the life of every man occur incidents, often slight 
in themselves, which seem to have a controlling in- 
fluence on his future. Nothing, it is argued, stands 
alone or is dissociated from everything else. Every 
fact is related to every other fact. The incidents great 
and small that occur are simply like a row of bricks 
set on end so that in falling each brick will strike and 
knock over the one next to it. All that is necessary 
in order to move the whole row is to push the flrst 
brick over. 

On the other hand are those who regard this as 
a merely superficial view; who insist that, while cir- 
cumstances seem to control man’s life, it is within the 
power of every person to change the circumstances; 


FRANK HORTON 


147 


or, using the same figure as before, to remove or alter 
the position of a brick at a point along the line, and 
thus at once to stop the effect of causing the first brick 
to fall. 

Frank Horton had never fully decided the question 
for himself, if indeed he had ever seriously considered 
it. The circumstances of his life thus far would seem 
to furnish about an equal amount of argument for 
either side. His father was a farmer in moderate cir- 
cumstances. He was an only child, and his mother 
had died when he was seven years old. His father’s 
sister, Amelia, a maiden lady of middle age, took 
charge of affairs in the Horton household after Mrs. 
Horton’s death, and for the next few years Frank was 
under her immediate care and supervision. To her he 
was obedient, but not affectionate. He could never 
be got to talk of his mother. To him the memory of 
his mother was sacred, and not to be shared with oth- 
ers. His aunt, seeing how he felt toward liis mother, 
would on occasions say to him that his mother would 
want him to do something or to act in a certain way. 
When the boy was nine years old, in answer to one of 
these statements, he said: know better than you 

or any one else what my mother would want me to 
do and not to do.” And he was right. He did know. 
It was a subject of daily and hourly thought with him. 
He had never heard of spiritualism. He knew nothing 
about the theory of the spirits of the departed hover- 


148 


THE LARGER FAITH 


ing near those they loved in this life; but he felt that 
his mother was with him when he was most alone, and 
that he knew her thoughts. 

He was not a lazy boy; but neither his father nor 
his Aunt Amelia was pleased at the way he did the 
work assigned to him. He appeared somewhat list- 
less at his tasks. As his aunt remarked, he didn’t 
“seem to take a-holt right.” There was one kind of 
work to which this statement did not apply. That 
was the care of live-stock. He could always be de- 
pended upon to care for any animals committed to his 
charge. 

In the winters he attended the country school, 
where he made fair progress in his studies. He was 
fond of reading, and had become familiar with the 
few books to which he had access. At sixteen he was 
a well-grown and fairly healthy boy of his age. For 
some time he had been intending some day to become 
a printer, but had not mentioned his intentions to any 
one until one day his father intimated to him an in- 
tention of taking a second wife. The boy had feared 
this of late. To him there was something sacrilegious 
in the thought of some other woman being installed 
in his mother’s place. He felt that if a step-mother 
must come he could not live under the same roof with 
her. He did not want even to meet her. Not then, 
at all events. Some time he might feel differently 
about it. Something of this feeling he told his father. 


FBANK HORTON 


149 


Not all, for he and his father had never been confi- 
dants, and he had no wish to wound his father’s feel- 
ings or his pride. Still he insisted that he must go 
and learn the printer’s trade, promising if allowed to 
go not to be a burden to his father. After some hesi- 
tation his father consented, and a few days later Frank 
began his new life in the office of a weekly news- 
paper published at the county seat of an adjoining 
county. 

He had not mistaken his vocation. The work inter- 
ested him and he was diligent and painstaking as a 
learner. By the time he was twenty-one years old 
he had become a thorough, all-around journeyman 
printer. In the time intervening since he had left 
home, he had seen his father two or three times a year. 
Sometimes his father visited him where he was at 
work; at other times he and his father met at their 
old home town; but Frank had never gone to his 
Itome. 

He now decided to start out and secure work in 
some other place, partly to see something of the world 
and partly to get the advantage of working at his 
trade in different offices. He had saved a little money 
and his employer furnished him wdth a strong letter 
of recommendation. Before going away he went to 
the town nearest his birth-place and there met and 
talked with his father. This proved to be the last 
time the two met. A few weeks later the father died, 


150 


THE LARGER FAITH 


and was buried before news of his death reached his 
son. 

During the next few years Frank drifted from place 
to place, working at his trade. He never changed 
much. There was about him an amount of self-poise 
rather unusual in a young man. Perhaps the key to 
an understanding of his character lies in the fact that 
his mother was always with him. He had felt her 
presence and her influence so constantly that the 
memory of her soft hands, her loving eyes and tender 
voice was as fresh as ever with him. He was not 
given to seeking crowds or indulging to any extent 
in the amusements of his associates. Occasionally he 
would go with them for the sake of comradeship, and 
sometimes take a drink or smoke a cigar; but he pre- 
ferred the quiet of his room with one chum when not 
at work. He was rather too solitary. He had been 
too much alone as a boy. Solitude has some advan- 
tages to a young person; but one who has lived much 
alone is likely to be more of a thinker or a dreamer 
than a pushing man of the world. 

When Frank Horton had been working three or 
four years at his trade he began to write short articles 
which he handed to the editor of the paper on which 
he happened to be employed. After keeping up this 
kind of experimental writing for some time he was 
offered and accepted a subordinate place on the edito- 
rial staff of a city daily. Though he held this posi- 


FRANK HORTON 


151 


tion for more than a year the work did not suit him. 
He felt cramped. Everything he wrote had to fit the 
policy of the paper. There was no chance for origi- 
nality or independence in the treatment of subjects. 
He had about determined to go back to the mechan- 
ical department of the printing business when an op- 
portunity occurred for him to acquire the control and 
become the editor of the Weekly Hazette at the city 

of E , in northern Ohio. He accepted the offer, 

and at the time of meeting with Dick Briggs he had 
been an independent editor for two years. 

Under his editorial management the Gazette had 
acquired the reputation of a paper which always re- 
flected the real sentiments of its editor on all sub- 
jects on which it spoke. Attempts were made from 
time to time to have Horton lend the support of the 
paper to this or that project, or. to treat of some mat- 
ter of public interest in a particular way. All such 
attempts failed. The editor did not appear to be try- 
ing to get rich, though the paper was fairly profitable. 
Once when some heavy advertisers wanted the paper 
to follow a certain line of policy, Horton told them 
the editorial page had no connection with the adver- 
tising columns. The paper aimed always to be fair, 
and generally its tone was kindly. It rarely went be- 
yond gentle irony or good-natured raillery in oppos- 
ing men or measures. But once in a while when Hor- 
ton got an idea that weakness was being oppressed by 


152 


THE LAKGER EAITH 


strength, that . helplessness was being imposed upon 
by power, he would blaze out with a wealth of invect- 
ive which was like an electric shock to his readers. It 
was the Gazette^s known readiness to champion the 
cause of the weak and denounce oppression in any 
form that led to the incident of Dick Briggs with the 
man who carried a wagon whip. 

Horton was not a society man. He knew many 
men in a business way, but had few intimates, and 
rarely visited the homes of his acquaintances. At 
Dick’s urgent invitation he had once spent an evening 
at the Briggs household. 

A few weeks after Dick’s encounter at the Gazette 
office occurred an event which seemed to draw in its 
train circumstances important in the lives of several 
people. 

One morning in the latter part of April, Horton 
drove a few miles into the country with a single horse 
and top-buggy from a livery stable. The day being 
pleasant he had laid back the buggy top and was fully 
enjoying his drive homeward when, in descending a 
hill about a mile from town, the holdback gave way. 
Horton had been driving carelessly, and before he 
could gather up the lines the horse was entirely be- 
yond his control. Once or twice Horton tried pulling 
on the lines, but found this only drew the buggy 
against the horse and added to the fright of the al- 
ready frantic animal. He dared not try to pull the 


FRANK HORTON 


153 


horse into a fence for fear of upsetting* in a ditch at 
the side of the road. The best he could do was to try 
to keep the animal in the road and let him run. The 
horse dashed into the town with somewhat slackened 
speed, but still wholly unmanageable. ^Several men 
rushed into the street and almost caused an upset by 
waving their arms and causing the horse to swerve. 
They got out of the way, however, before the horse 
reached them. But there was one who acted differ- 
ently. It was Dick Briggs. He saw the runaway com- 
ing, caught sight of the occupant of the buggy, and 
forgot everything else in the desire to save his friend. 
With a rush he grabbed the reins at the horse’s head. 
He was jerked from his feet in a moment, but he held 
on. The horse dashed into a board fence, the buggy 
caught against a post, the horse was thrown by the 
shock and Horton was pitched forward some twenty 
feet out on the ground, but suffered no other injury 
than a few bruises and a severe shaking up. But Dick 
did not escape so well. Men rushed to the spot and 
found him lying at the head of the fallen horse, still 
grasping the reins; but he was bleeding at mouth and 
nose and unable to rise. When helped up one of his 
legs hung limp. “Did you get hurt, old man?” he in- 
quired of Horton; then, without waiting for an an- 
swer, he fainted. He was at once conveyed to his 
home and a physician summoned, who found that 
Dick had suffered a broken leg, three broken ribs, and 


154 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


internal injuries, the extent of which could not then 
he determined. Horton had followed him home and 
remained throughout the examination and until the 
physician had finished his work, and left, promising 
to call again an hour or two later. 

Horton followed the physician into the hall and in- 
quired as to Dick’s condition. 

^^We can’t tell for a day or two,” answered the doc- 
tor. ‘^If his internal injuries are not too serious, he’ll 
get over the broken bones and bruises all right.” 

Dick had asserted, but somewhat weakly, that he 
wasn’t hurt much and would soon be around all right. 
The doctor left directions to have him kept as quiet 
as possible. During the next two days Horton re- 
mained almost constantly at Dick’s bedside. On the 
third day Dr. Koberts pronounced Dick out of dan- 
ger, and for the first time after the accident Horton 
went home and to bed. Thereafter while Dick was 
convalescing Horton spent a part of almost every day 
with him. Dick was fond of hearing Horton read 
aloud, and his wishes were fully gratified. His sound 
constitution and naturally buoyant disposition aided 
greatly in his speedy recovery. From the first he had 
refused to listen to any thanks from Horton for his 
act, and seemed to feel annoyed when the subject was 
referred to. 

About three weeks after the accident Dick was sit- 
ting propped up in bed one afternoon and Horton was 


FRANK HORTON 


155 


reading to him, when a young woman of about Dick’s 
age entered the room and going to the bed exclaimed, 
‘‘You poor old Dick! Were you going to commit sui- 
cide?” and kissed him. 

“AYhy, Corinne, I’m glad to see you!” said Dick; 
then he added: “This is Mr. Horton, Corinne — ^my 
cousin. Miss Eoberts.” 

The girl blushed, then frankly extended her hand, 
saying: “I understand you have been quite a faith- 
ful nurse to Dick, Mr. Horton.” 

“I was the unfortunate cause of his getting hurt,” 
said Horton, as they shook hands. 

“No, drop that, Horton!” said Dick. “I was going 
to stop that horse, and I’d have stopped him if the 
huggy’d been empty!” 

When Miss Eoberts had gone, after promising to 
come and stay part of the following day with Dick, 
Horton learned that she was the daughter of the at- 
tending physician. Dr. Eoberts, and had been away 
at school, having returned that day for the first time 
since Dick’s injury. Horton met her several times 
after that at Dick’s house; and once when they were 
both there in the evening he walked home with her, 
and before leaving her at the gate he asked and was 
given permission to call at some later date. 

In the course of time Dick fully recovered from his 
injuries and was as well as ever, though slightly so- 
bered by his experience. Horton felt that he owed his 


156 


THE LARGER FAITH 


life to Dick, and the two were the warmest friends. 
Dick one day confided to Horton that he expected 
before long to get married and settle down. Horton 
congratulated his friend and expressed approval of 
his intentions. 

“It’s too soon for congratulations,” said Dick. “I’ll 
tell you more about it before long.” 

A week or two later Dick called at Horton’s room 
between ten and eleven o’clock one night. 

“Horton, I’m going away and called to say good- 
by,” he said. He was disordered and distressed in 
appearance. Horton had never seen him in this mood 
before. 

“Why, Dick, what’s the matter?” exclaimed Hor- 
ton. 

“I’ve been refused, and I’m going away to-night,” 
answered Dick. 

“But you don’t want to take it that way, old man,” 
said Horton. “You’ll look at it differently later.” 

“How would you take it yourself if you were in my 
place?” asked Dick, impetuously. 

Horton paled slightly as he answered, in a low 
voice: “I don’t know, Dick, how I would take it. 
Still, I think it’s better for you not to go this way.” 

Arguments were useless, however. Dick left that 
night for the far west, and after the first month or 
two neither Horton nor his family could get any word 
from him. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


MAKING PROGRESS. 

On the same day on which Darrell met Mr. Winter 
on the street he wrote to Young, briefly stating the 
circumstances and his anxiety for the welfare of his 
friend Winter, and asking whether Young would re- 
ceive him for a few months. He received a prompt 
reply from Young saying with reference to the in- 
quiry: ‘‘Mr. Winter will be welcome to come here 
and try our way of living. If there is any dissatisfac- 
tion on either side he can at least stay until he is able 
to make other arrangements. Tell him to bring only 
coarse, old clothes and heavy underwear. Let him 
wire me a day or two ahead stating the time of his ar- 
rival at Tres Piedras.” 

A day or two after Darrell’s receipt of this letter 
Mr. Winter, having completed his preparations, 
started for New Mexico. The state of his health was 
causing not only his friends, but himself as well, much 
anxiety. Though he did not say so, and tried to con- 
ceal his feelings on the subject from his family and 
friends, he felt as he bade them farewell that it was 


158 


THE LARGER FAITH 


probably their final separation in this life. His fam- 
ily and friends had the same feeling, which they also 
tried to conceal. 

At the end of a three days’ trip he stepped from the 
train to the platform at the station of Tres Piedras, 
feeling a little jaded but othermse none the worse for 
the trip. In fact, for the last day he had begun to 
feel the effect of the bracing air of the arid region. 

^‘Are you Mr. Winter?” said Ned Long, approach- 
ing him as the train pulled out. 

^‘Yes, sir,” answered the minister. 

‘^Mr. Young sent me to take you out to the ranch,” 
said Ned. ‘‘If you’ll show me your luggage I’ll put it 
in the cart.” 

“I have no luggage but this gripsack,” replied Mr. 
Winter. 

They were soon on the way to the ranch in a cart 
drawn by Ned’s horse, Whitefoot. Mr. Winter had 
never before been west of the Mississippi river, and as 
he now filled his lungs with the fresh air and looked 
around at the novel scenery he felt more hopeful than 
he had done in months. The day was bright and clear, 
and after a pleasant three hours’ drive they arrived at 
the ranch at about one o’clock. Young met his vis- 
itor with quiet courtesy, inquiring as to his trip and 
about Darrell, but made no reference to the minister’s 
health. After introducing him to the bedroom and 
showing him where to wash, Young put on the table 


MAKING PEOGRESS 159 

the dinner which was already prepared, and they all 
sat down to eat. 

Noticing a slight hesitation on the part of his vis- 
itor, Young said: ‘^Do you wish to ask a blessing, Mr. 
Winter?” 

The minister bowed his head and proceeded to say 
grace. Young’s manner at table, as elsewhere, was 
polite but not effusive, and gave the impression that 
he wanted his visitor to be comfortable. There was 
no apology offered for anything, and no urging to eat 
more. After dinner he conducted Mr. Winter into 
the sitting room. Taking a hasty look at the shelves 
of books and then at the table covered with news- 
papers and magazines, Mr. Winter said, with a smile: 
‘T see our friend Darrell wanted to surprise me. He 
said nothing to me of this, and almost nothing of 
you.” 

‘‘You have seen the extent of ttie house now,” re- 
plied Young. “While you remain, be at home.” 

Mr. Winter fell readily into his changed mode of 
life. Young went about his work just as before; but 
when the minister offered to help in the 'household 
duties his offer was accepted as if it were a matter of 
course that he should work. The reverend gentle- 
man’s former parishioners would have been somewhat 
astonished had they beheld him, within a few days of 
his arrival at the ranch, in his shirt-sleeves, wearing 
old clothes and slouch hat, engaged in washing dishes 


160 


THE LARGER EAITH 


or rinsing out, wringing and hanging up a washing. 
I’rom the time of his arrival his health improved rap- 
idly. Both the natural atmosphere and the social 
atmosphere about the place seemed to agree with him 
perfectly. He liked Young, and still was puzzled at 
first in trying to make an estimate of him and to un- 
derstand his character. In looking over the library he 
noticed that among the books showing most usage 
were a bible and a bible concordance; but beside 
these, and also showing evidence of having been read 
much, were other books which seemed to him to be of 
an opposite character, such as Eenan’s Life of Jesus, 
and works of other authors whom he had always re- 
garded as dangerous infidels. He resolved to try to 
draw his host out and learn, if he could, the state of 
mind of a man who took an interest in works of such 
a diverse character. In all their conversations of any 
length during the first two weeks of Mr. Winter’s stay 
at the ranch. Young, while in all other respects treat- 
ing him as a member of the family, had so far re- 
garded him as a guest as to allow him to choose the 
subjects and take the leading part in their talks. The 
minister had told Young of his family and more than 
once in the course of his talk had referred to his son 
John. One day Young remarked to him: judge 

from what you have said that John is quite a satis- 
factory son?” 


MAKING PKOGRESS 161 

‘^Yes/’ replied the minister, ‘^John is a good boy. 
He has never given us any worry or trouble.” 

‘‘Is he disposed to be grateful for what you do for 
him?” asked Young. 

“Yes, very much so,” answered the minister. 

“Does he tell you so, daily?” inquired Young. 

“Why, no, not daily,” said the minister, looking 
inquiringly at Young. “Of course I don’t expect 
that. He shows by his actions that he appreciates 
what is done for him.” 

“Do you know, Mr. Winter,” said Young, smiling 
at the minister, “that I believe my Father feels just 
as you do about that? I am thankful every moment 
for my physical health and welfare, for all the mental 
and spiritual good that is mine, for all the joys of 
life — and life to me is full of joy; but my Father 
knows this; my actions show it, and I have too much 
respect for his intelligence to suppose that he wishes 
me to express my thankfulness daily or at every meal 
time in a set form of words, or even that it would 
please him to have me do so.” 

“Do you not believe in prayer at all?” asked the 
minister. 

“Yes, in prayers of thankfulness,” answered Young. 
“And every aspiration, every right thought, every 
attempt or desire to know God, is a prayer.” 

“Still, don’t you think it well that we should form- 
ulate and express our thanks?” said the minister. 


162 THE LARGER EAITH 

^^Only by our actions/^ replied Young. ^^Any other 
method seems to me a reflection on the divine intelli- 
gence.^^ 

‘‘I cannot assent to that view/’ said Mr. Winter, 
mildly; and conversation on the topic was dropped 
for that time. 

One evening in the sitting room as they were talk- 
ing Mr. Winter used the term, ‘Hhe Man of Sorrows.” 

'^Why do you speak of Jesus Christ as the ‘Man of 
Sorrows’?” asked Young. 

“It is a very common designation,” replied the min- 
ister; “and it accords with the facts, does it not? I 
believe the phrase is from Isaiah — ‘a Man of Sorrows, 
and acquainted with grief.’ ” 

“It is a common designation and is found in 
Isaiah,” said Young; “but it seems to me a mere cant 
phrase, all the same; and in my opinion it expresses 
the very opposite of the truth as to Jesus Christ.” 

“How is that?” said the minister. “Do you not 
look on him as a Man of Sorrows?” 

“No, I don’t,” said Young. “I am satisfied that 
J 3SUS Christ was one of the most cheerful as he cer- 
tainly was one of the happiest men of whom we have 
any knowledge.” 

“Does that view accord with the scriptural account 
of his life?” questioned the minister. 

“I think it does,” answered Young. “It is the 
scriptural account on which I base my views. He ob- 


MAKING PROGRESS 


163 


tained complete mastery over what we call self; in 
other words, in him the spiritual completely con- 
trolled the physical. He was able to assert from per- 
sonal experience that Hhe flesh profiteth nothing.’ 
He saw and understood, perhaps more clearly than 
any other, the true relationship of man to all life, to 
nature, to God. Now, to one who has attained that 
degree of spirituality, unhappiness is an impossibility. 
He has attained heaven, and lives constantly in 
heaven. He may feel for others, sympathize with 
others; but there could be nothing despondent or de- 
pressing or mournful in that sympathy. What we call 
the misfortunes of life could have no depressing ef- 
fect on such a person. The loss of property, the death 
of friends, even his own death, could in no wise cast 
him down. The spiritual height attained by Jesus 
Christ, his entire self-abnegation, his utter unselfish- 
ness, must of necessity have made his life a happy 
one. It could not be otherwise. I have no doubt he 
was a cheerful man. I doubt not that he was a pleas- 
ant companion with whom to go fishing and with 
whom to live day by day; for the presence and in- 
fluence of such a character, such a spirit as his, must 
have been an inspiration, a benediction and a joy to 
all those around him. I think, by the way, that paint- 
ers who have undertaken to depict the features of 
Jesus Christ all have had a misconception of the man 
— at all events, I have never seen a picture of him 


164 


THE LAKGEB FAITH 


tliat represented him otherwise than mournful and 
sad.” 

perfectly agree with you,” said the minister, 
^‘that spiritually Christ was above and superior to all 
the ills of this world.” 

^‘That implies that there are two kinds of happi- 
ness,” replied Young, ^Vhich I regard as one of the 
radical errors of mankind — an error, if you’ll pardon 
my saying it, that I think the preachers have done 
much to create. I believe all happiness is spiritual, 
and that when one has become spiritually superior to 
the ills of life he is perforce happy.” 

‘‘Do you recognize no distinction, then, between 
spiritual and secular welfare?” asked the minister. 

“No, I think there is no difference,” said Young. 
“Spiritual welfare of necessity includes secular wel- 
fare and happiness.” 

“As to Christ being a happy man,” said the min- 
ister, “you will admit that he underwent great suffer- 
ing in his life, and especially in his death on the 
cross?” 

“No, I cannot admit even that,” said Young; “I do 
not believe Jesus Christ suffered on the cross. I be- 
lieve he had acquired such complete mastery over 
himself — that in him the spirit so entirely controlled 
the body — that the mutilation of his body did not 
necessarily cause him suffering.” 

“It seems to me your conception of Christ is not 


MAKING PKOGRESS 


165 


that generally entertained by Christians, or, so far as 
I know, by skeptics,” said the minister. ^^Still, your 
views involve a recognition of the divinity of Christ.” 

Assuredly so,” replied Young. “1 believe every 
human being is of divine origin.” 

^^But,” said the minister, disturbed at this state- 
ment, ^^if you do away with the miraculous concep- 
tion of Christ, what is left of the Christian religion?” 

“Everything is left of it that is at all helpful or of 
any value to mankind,” replied Young. “Everything 
is left of it that was taught by Jesus Christ himself. 
The Christian religion in no wise depends upon a be- 
lief in the miraculous conception of its Founder. The 
true Christian religion is the universal, eternal reli- 
gion, toward a recognition of which all mankind are 
tending. In its essence it is the religion of all time 
and of all mankind. The conception which I have of 
its great Founder and of his relation to the human 
race does not degrade him, but elevates humanity.” 

“But is it not degrading Christ to hold that each 
of us is or can be equal to him?” asked the minister. 

“It is Jesus Christ’s own teaching,” answered 
Young. “When he said, ^Be ye therefore perfect even 
as your father which is in heaven is perfect,’ was he 
giving a command or an injunction incapable of being 
followed? When he said, 'He that believeth on me, 
the works that I do shall he do also; and greater 
works than these shall he do,’ was he insincere? 


166 


THE LARGER FAITH 


When he said, ‘Blessed are the pure in heart/ are we 
to suppose he was speaking of a condition impossible 
to attain? It seems clear to me that the effect of the 
teachings of Jesus Christ is that men not only can he, 
hut ought to he, in every way his equals/^ 

The minister sat silent and thoughtful for some 
time; then, rising, he said, with apparent irrelevancy: 
“Fm glad I came out here. I feel that I am making 
progress. Good night.’’ 


CHAPTER XV. 


COKINNE ROBERTS. 

All his life it had been the disposition of Frank 
Horton to conceal his deeper emotions. The only un- 
deserved confidante he had ever had was his mother. 
After her death, partly owing to his nature and partly 
to the circumstances surrounding him, he had grown 
more and more reticent concerning himself and his 
feelings. This disposition, or the habit growing out 
of it, grew on him as he got older. 

Up to the time of the runaway in which Dick 
Briggs took such a prominent part, he had never felt 
more than a passing admiration for or interest in any 
woman. He admired women and was deferential 
toward all the sex; but he had never loved any woman 
but his mother. He had never given any serious 
thought to the subject of marriage. While he was 
far from being a selfish man in the ordinary accepta- 
tion of that term, he was engrossed in his work and 
his literary studies and recreations. 

Soon after meeting Corinne Roberts he began to 
be conscious that a new sensation was stealing over 


168 


THE LABGER FAITH 


him. There was something about her that was at- 
tractive and fascinating to him. She was not what 
society calls a beauty; but she was full of that inde- 
hnaible charm of person and manner which attracts 
both men and women. From an early age she had 
been a leader among her associates, without any effort 
on her part to lead. Modest and unassuming in her 
manner, she was nevertheless a pattern to her asso- 
ciates. What Corinne Roberts wore was ipso facto 
stylish and the proper thing to wear. Any place she 
went was a proper place for girls to go, and was so 
regarded by her associates and their mothers. It 
would be a very wrong conclusion to draw from these 
statements that Corinne was a goody-goody girl. 
There was nothing about her suggestive of partly de- 
veloped wings. There was nothing at all doll-like. 
She was very human from head to foot. In person 
she was of medium height, with well-rounded form. 
Her sloping shoulders gave her the appearance of 
being smaller than she really was. Her complexion, 
eyes and hair were dark. Her features were regular, 
but not at all classic. It was not so much to be won- 
dered at that her associates followed her in matters 
of dress. She was one of the somewhat rare women 
who set off their clothes and to whom their apparel 
always seems becoming. A girl who lived at a dis- 
tance and who was visiting a friend in E once re- 

marked, with some asperity: “I believe if Corinne 


COEINNE EGBERTS 


169 


Roberts wore a dress of red flannel the rest of you 
girls would all say that was just the proper thing for 
a dress, and wear it, too.” 

And there was some basis of truth in the statement. 
There was that about her which inspired good-will 
and confidence, not only among young persons but 
among her elders as well. Perhaps some explanation 
of her relation to her associates and to people gener- 
ally might have been found in a remark of one of her 
schoolmates, who, when told that Corinne Roberts 
liked a particular person who was not generally popu- 
lar, replied: ‘^Oh, Corinne Roberts likes everybody.” 
This was largely true. Corinne did like people gener- 
ally. Her liking extended to little children and dogs 
and cats and flowers. She had been known to pick up 
a crying three-year-old boy who had his mother wor- 
ried nearly out of her wits, give him a little shake 
and say to him with a smile, “Here, young man, 
you’re missing lots of fun!” and in two minutes have 
the child wanting to desert his mother and go with 
her. 

But it is impossible to transfer such a personality 
to paper. The always hopeful disposition, the bright 
smile, the quiet, sympathetic manner, the low, cheery 
voice — in short, the person herself must have been 
met and seen and heard to be understood and appre- 
ciated. 

For the first time in his life Frank Horton, when 


170 


THE LARGER FAITH 


in the presence of Corinne, began to feel the shyness 
of a boy. He had never experienced this feeling as a 
boy, for he had never felt any other than a passing 
friendliness toward any of his girl acquaintances. But 
he felt a degree of trepidation in approaching Co- 
rinne. He trembled when he asked if he might call 
on her. He was ashamed of himself for the care he 
gave to his dress and personal appearance when the 
evening came for him to make the first call. Corinne 
was frank, open and friendly in her demeanor, and 
this very fact annoyed Horton. If she had shown 
some coyness, if she had been a little shy or blushed 
occasionally, he would have felt bolder and more in 
command of himself. But she was exasperatingly sis- 
ter-like in her manner. 

Horton had met Dr. Roberts a number of times at 
the bedside of Dick Briggs. The doctor was a man 
of few words in his profession. His keen eyes, over- 
hung by bushy eyebrows, gave one the impression of 
looking clear through and seeing what was on the im 
side. Mrs. Roberts was a gentle, motherly woman, 
chiefiy anxious that everybody around her should be 
comfortable. Both she and the doctor shared the gen- 
eral belief that whatever Corinne did was the right 
thing to do. In fact, they both treated Corinne more 
like a sister than a daughter. She called her parents 
Father and Mother and was always deferential and 


CORINK E ROBERTS 


171 


obedient — so obedient that her parents seldom gave 
her a command, and rather deferred to her judgment. 

The very openness and friendly frankness with 
which Horton was received by this family irritated 
him. He noticed that when other people called they 
were treated just the same way by Corinne and her 
parents, and he felt aggrieved at that. He determined 
to stay away, and held to his determination for two 
whole weeks. Then he called again and was met with 
the same cheerful friendliness as before. He tried by 
self-examination to account for his feelings, and 
failed. It was a long time before he acknowledged 
to himself that he was in love. Then he tried to shake 
it off. The disparity in their ages was too great. It 
would not do for him to marry a girl like that. He 
tried to reason the matter out in all possible ways; but 
one evening, when he had been with her for two 
hours and was about to leave he clasped her to his 
breast, kissed her and said, H want you for my wife!’’ 
and Corinne, unashamed, returned the kiss, and said, 
in a low voice: ‘T want you for my husband!” 

This was all very improper and unconventional, but 
it was the way these two people became engaged. 
Horton was in the seventh heaven of happiness. He 
felt sure that the parents would consent; still he had a 
courteous interview with Dr. Roberts. As Corinne’s 
happiness was the uppermost idea in the mind of 
both, they had no trouble in agreeing. Thereafter, 


172 


THE LARGER FAITH 


Horton was looked upon and treated as a member of 
the family. He was simply mad with joy. The idea 
that he was to have for his wife and possess as his 
very own such a creature as Corinne made him de^ 
lirious. He trod on air. He was jealous when Corinne 
kissed her mother on leaving home with him when 
starting to the theater. He felt offended when her 
father commanded her to loosen her belt and gruffly 
remarked that he would have no tight lacing in his 
family — a command and a remark which Corinne an- 
swered with a kiss and a little pull at her father’s 
whiskers. 

It was arranged that the wedding should be in 
May, just about a year after Horton and Corinne had 
first met. Dr. and Mrs. Roberts joined in asking Hor- 
ton to live with them, as they had ample house room 
and much preferred to have their daughter stay with 
them. Besides, the parents both liked Horton. 
Corinne one day laughingly told him she was jealous 
on account of the affection her mother showed for 
him. 

About a week before the time set for their mar- 
riage, Horton was called to Cincinnati on a business 
errand. The evening before his departure was passed 
at the Roberts household, where he expected soon to 
make his home. Corinne mentioned that her cousin, 
Tom Briggs, had asked her to go out fishing with him 
a day or two later on the lake. As they separated 


COEINNE KOBEETS 


173 


Horton said, week from to-night, darling, we 
will be living together,” and Corinne answered sim- 
ply: ^‘Yes.” With a passionate kiss they parted. 

Horton returned from his trip two days later, ar^ 
riving at about nine o’clock in the evening, and went 
direct from the depot to the Eoherts home. He found 
no one there hut Mrs. Roberts, and she was in distress. 
Corinne had gone out on the lake with Tom Briggs 
that afternoon, and they had not returned. The doc- 
tor was out looking for them. Horton at once started 
to the lake. He was uneasy, hut not greatly alarmed. 
Tom was a skillful boatman, hut it was very unusual 
for them to remain out to that time of night. Hor- 
ton found Dr. Roberts walking along the lake shore 
and looking very grave. Boats had been sent out to 
look for the missing ones, hut as yet none had re- 
turned. For awhile the father and the lover walked 
the beach with but little conversation. At about two 
o’clock in the morning one of the boats that had been 
sent out returned bringing the boat in which Tom 
Briggs and Corinne had gone out. It had been found 
upside down about three miles from shore. An icy 
chill came upon Horton. White, silent, he paced up 
and down the beach, hardly recognizing the people 
he met. All that night and all the next day was one 
long nightmare to him. Toward evening one of his 
friends took him almost by force to a restaurant and 
ordered a meal. Horton began eating voraciously, but 


174 


THE LARGER FAITH 


in the middle of the meal got up and started for the 
lake shore, where he resumed his watch. Soon after 
dark that night the body of Tom Briggs was washed 
ashore. A little while after some one came with the 
hat which Corinne had worn, which had been found 
on the shore some miles away. All that night Horton 
walked and watched and waited. He had seen the 
body of Tom Briggs and shuddered. With the gray 
of the morning he began to have an impression of 
some shapeless, bloated thing coming ashore with the 
clothes on which Corinne had worn. He found it im- 
possible to shake off this sensation. It kept growing 
on him and becoming more vivid until he could no 
longer bear to stay at the lake. The very sight of the 
water was agony to him. He went to Mrs. Roberts, 
who embraced him, crying: “Oh, Frank, my son!” 
Horton was as cold as ice. He had not shed a tear. 
He kissed Mrs. Roberts and said: “Good-by, I can’t 
stay.” 

“Where are you going, Frank?” asked Mrs. Roberts. 

“I don’t know!” said Horton. 


CHAPTEK XVI. 


THE TRAMP. 

When Horton left Mrs. Eoberts he walked to the 
depot and stepped on a train. He did not know or 
care where he was going. The conductor had to call 
on him the second time for his fare. Horton mechan- 
ically handed out his pass. He arrived at Cincinnati 
some time in the night. Instead of going toward the 
city he started out along the railroad track. Pres- 
ently he came to the river and saw a boat. He went 
aboard. After the boat started some one came around 
and asked for fare. Horton handed out a bill. ‘^Mays- 
ville?’^ asked the man. Horton nodded. When the 
boat arrived at Maysville, Kentucky, Horton was 
asleep. “Here’s your place,” said the man, shaking 
him. He got up and went ashore. Walking through 
the town, he saw the sign of a drug store. He walked 
in and said: “Give me a quart of whisky.” Then he 
walked straight through the town and out into the 
country. He drank the whisky in great draughts. He 
walked. He was fleeing — trying to get away from 
himself. He slept by the side of a haystack — ^how 


176 


THE LARGER FAITH 


long he never knew. He felt hungry and asked foi 
and got something to eat. He came to a country tav- 
ern and asked if they kept whisky. 

“That's what we've got," said the proprietor. 

Horton got a quart and walked on. He remem- 
bered dimly that a long, long time before, in some 
other life, he had known an editor named Horton 
who was going to marry a Corinne. In some way 
this Horton and Corinne were making him trouble. 
He couldn't recall how or why, but he wanted to for- 
get them. Somehow the very memory 'of them was 
painful to him. Why did they persist in intruding on 
him in this way? He couldn't recall that he was re- 
lated to either of them. And then Corinne was 
drowned. He remembered seeing the blackened, 
bloated corpse. What had become of it? Why must 
he be constantly annoyed in this way? 

A long nightmare followed. How long Horton 
never knew. He ate, he slept, he walked on and on, 
he even conversed with people sometimes. There was 
that overhanging something always oppressing him. 
Just what it was he could not clearly remember. 
Once or twice he pinched himself in a dazed way, and 
felt a dull surprise that one in a dream would do that 
and feel and remember it. It occurred to him that 
the appearance of the sunshine, the trees, the grass 
and flowers, to one asleep, was somewhat like pictures 
seen through a stereoscope. He could not recall ever 


THB TBAMP 


177 


before having dreamed of going asleep and of wak- 
ing, and it seemed to him a curious thing that he 
should do so. The people seemed natural to him, 
though he thought some of the things they said to 
him and of him in his hearing would he funny if he 
could remember them when he awoke. It seemed 
queer to him, too, that all the people were strangers. 
In former dreams he had always seen and talked with 
people he knew. When at times glimpses of the past 
obtruded themselves, recourse to his bottle drove 
away the ugly visions. The days ran into weeks, and 
still he kept on. 

Walking through a country town one day, he saw 
the sign of a newspaper and job printing office. He 
stopped and gazed at it as a man might look if sud- 
denly confronted with his own name on a tombstone. 
Then he walked into the office and said: want 

work.” 

^^How long have you been on the bum?” asked the 
proprietor, looking him over. 

Horton seemed to try to recall something, but 
finally shook his head, saying: me work.” 

‘^Well, you better wash up and brush your clothes 
first,” said the proprietor, ‘^and then we’ll see what 
you can do.” 

He soon showed what he could do when he got hold 
of printing material. There was nothing about the 
office but what he could do better and more quickly 


178 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


than any one else there. He was a glutton for work. 
Xo hours were too long for him. Extra work seemed 
to please him. Day after day he worked, doing every* 
thing he was set at as if it were a rush order. Some- 
times he would suddenly stop, seem to be trying to 
think of something, then go to his room, which was 
near the office, and return with a strong odor of liquor 
about him. He made no effort to hide this, seeming 
not to look upon it as a vice. When he had been 
working about three weeks the proprietor said to 
him: 

‘^See here. Work! Can’t you let up on this 
whisky? You can have as good a job as there is 
about this office, and better pay than I’ve been giv- 
ing you.” 

was just going to tell you I’ll have to quit,” said 
Horton. 

‘‘I wish you wouldn’t do it,” said the editor. “Stay 
here and let me help you!” 

“I have to move on,” said Horton. 

“Can’t I offer you any inducement to stay?” asked 
the editor. 

“It isn’t that,” said Horton. “I’m obliged to you.” 

Again he was on the tramp. Again he suffered all 
the pangs of memory — such memory as was left him. 
The curse of the wandering foot was on him. Wher- 
ever he stopped and worked he was recognized as a 
first-class printer, and in some respects a phenomenon. 


THE TKAMP 


179 


He was willing and anxious to do the work of other , 
people. He even relieved the office devil, and gave 
him half a dollar with which to go to the show, while 
he did the work of that functionary. 

Six weeks was the longest he ever stayed in one 
place. The proprietor was congratulating himself on 
having found a jewel when Horton said: ‘T have to 
go. Good-by!” 

Through Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, Arkan- 
sas, Texas, he drifted, always avoiding cities and al- 
ways hunting hard work. Was he sane? Different 
persons might have given opposite answers. Some 
persons thought there was something uncanny about 
him. He took long, lonely walks at night. He rarely 
talked at any length. And he drank. 

He was the best printer that had .ever been known 
wherever he got a job. All the offices where he 
worked wanted to keep him and all failed. When the 
time came he had to go on. Nothing would stay 
him. No offer of wages had any effect on him. What 
was his name? He could hardly have told. Some- 
body had called him /^Work” soon after his starting , 
out, and that seemed his proper name. He did not 
know whether he gave it out or people just knew it — 
he was called Work, and he answered to the name. 
What did it matter to him, so long as he had whisky? 

When he had been following this life a few months 
his former habit of writing began to assert itself, or 


180 


THE LAEGBR EAITH 


rather the habit of authorship, for without having 
written a word he would proceed to put in type ar- 
ticles, generally short, proofs of which he would hand 
to the editor, asking if he wanted to use that. These 
articles were generally quite unconventional, but were 
put in choicest English and had a literary charm 
which made them noticeable. But their author could 
never be got to write anything at request. He even 
evaded stating that he was the responsible author 
of what he handed in, giving it as something he had 
set up from recollection of what he had once read or 
heard. 

Once when he had gone from Texas up into New 
Mexico it occurred to him to quit drinking. He had 
never acquired a taste for whisky. On the contrary, 
he disliked it, but it brought forgetfulness. During 
all his wanderings, save the first few weeks, he held to 
his old habits of personal cleanliness. After every 
tramp he cleaned himself up and was neat in his per- 
son and clothes. He quit the use of liquor for two 
days. On the third, the memory of the history of 
Frank Horton rushed upon him and overwhelmed 
him. He hesitated whether to seek forgetfulness in 
whisky or a bullet. He reasoned that the life he had 
been living was worse than wasted. It might as well 
end now as any other time. Then it occurred to him 
to quit living for himself and his own grief, and begin 
living for others. But how? What was there he 


THE TRAMP 


181 


could do for anybody? As a matter of fact be was 
daily doing acts of kindness to his fellow-workmen 
and all others when he had a chance, but he took no 
account of these little things and did not think of 
them. Still the thought clung to him: Live for 
others. 

He decided to do it, and that he might continue 
to live at all, he got another supply of whisky. 

With all his drinking he had never become con- 
vivial. He was not stingy. He would give a fellow- 
workman a drink, and sometimes invite one he liked 
to his room and share his bottle with him. But he 
had no taste for hanging about saloons or being with 
crowds. 

After the one time mentioned, he didn’t quit drink- 
ing. Northward through New Mexico and into Colo- 
rado he tramped his way, working a few days here, a 
few weeks there. For more than a year and a half he 
had been without an object or a hope, utterly careless 
as to what the future had jn store for him provided 
only he could forget the past. 

Now, the idea of doing something for somebody, 
of devoting his worthless life to some purpose, had 
taken possession of him. He thought vaguely of 
Dick Briggs’s rescue of himself, and wished he could 
in like manner save the life of some one — anybody. 

In this mood he started one day for the mining 
town of G . It was long after night when he ar- 


182 


THE LAEGEK FAITH 


rived there. He knew it would be useless to go to any 
printing office before the next day. He dropped into 
a rough building used for a railroad depot and took a 
seat. He was asleep when a watchman shook him by 
the shoulder and told him the company didn’t keep 
that for a lodging house, and there was no train for 
hours yet. He went on the street and saw an open 
saloon. Going in, he got a drink at the bar and then 
took a chair in the back part of the room. Again he 
dropped asleep and again he was wakened and told to 
move on. As he passed out he saw by the clock be- 
hind the bar that it was after four o’clock. He went 
out and to another saloon. It was the Kedlight. Into 
this he went with the idea of getting another drink 
and staying as long as he should be permitted. 

There were but three persons in the place. Behind 
the bar was the bartender, and at a table toward the 
back of the room were two men, with one of whom 
the bartender was having loud words. As he passed 
back toward where the two men sat he recognized in 
the voice of the man quarreling with the bartender 
his old friend Dick Briggs. It was the first time since 
starting out on his tramp that he had seen one he had 
known before. A new sensation came upon him — 
shame at being recognized. He dropped into a chair 
and gazed for a moment at Dick. He had been so 
startled that the subject of the quarrel had not 
reached him. As he dropped into his seat epithets 


THE TKAMP 


183 


were hurled back and forth between Dick and the 
bartender, and the latter reached for a big revolver 
which lay on the shelf behind the bar. Just then a 
shot rang out and the bartender dropped to the floor. 
It was Dick who had fired the shot. The moment he 
saw what he had done he dropped his revolver and he 
and the man sitting at the table with him rushed out 
the back door. Horton walked over to the table they 
had left, picked up the smoking gun and was gazing 
at it mechanically when some one grabbed him, took 
the gun away from him and said: “Who’d you 
shoot at?” 

And Horton muttered to himself: '^My chance to 
get even.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


NO. 3708. 

When John Doe began his life sentence in the 
Colorado penitentiary he was a different man from 
the one who had been arrested charged with the mur- 
der of Phil Ditson. In the time since his arrest he 
had become thoroughly sobered from the effects of 
whisky, for the first time in nearly two years. This 
was true to such an extent that the mere idea of tak- 
ing a drink was distasteful to him. He did not feel 
that he had done anything so very creditable in tak- 
ing the course he had with reference to the killing of 
the bartender. What he had offered up was a life 
worse than useless, and one he felt would not have 
lasted long as he was living it. It seemed to him 
fortunate that something had occurred to break up 
suddenly and forcibly the life he had been living. If 
no one else had been benefited by his act, the advan- 
tage to himself was sufficient compensation. 

Did Dick Briggs know of his incarceration, or that 
anybody had been convicted for what he had done? 
He hoped not, for it wasn’t at all like the old Dick he 


NO. 3708 


185 


had known to stand back and shirk responsibility. 
Still, if Dick did know, it was all right. There was 
no complaint, no grudge against Dick or anybody 
else. He had fully made up his mind to spend the 
rest of his life in prison. Perhaps he could do some 
good there, though he had no definite notion then of 
the way. 

At first he was a puzzle both to the officers and to 
his fellow-prisoners. The officers, who knew the 
crime for which he was sent there and the circum- 
stances of his trial and conviction, were inclined to 
bo suspicious at the cheerful docility and apparent 
content of the new prisoner. * They thought he might 
be trying to win their confidence in furtherance of 
some deep-laid scheme of his own. They soon became 
convinced of his entire sincerity, however, and then 
they were more puzzled than before. He was evi- 
dently a man of more than ordinary education and re- 
finement, as they learned by noticing his penmanship 
and the books he chose from the prison library. Yet 
he seemed to be perfectly contented, did whatever 
work he was set at cheerfully and in the most thor- 
ough manner, and lived up to the prison regulations 
like a man who had been accustomed to obeying them 
all his life. When, after he had been there some time, 
he was given clerical work to do in connection with 
acting for the time being as librarian, he filled both 
places so well that he was kept there. 


186 


THE LARGER FAITH 


To the prisoners he was a novelty. The prison had 
a few men wdio were as well educated as he, but none 
others just like him. 

Even among prisoners a man’s real character soon 
becomes known. ISTo. 3708 was rated among them as 
being, in their language, ^^all right.” He treated 
each of them with as much kindness as if they were 
all outside the prison and he were a business man 
seeking their custom. 

When he had been there some time another pris- 
oner was sent up from the same county where he had 
been convicted. Immediately word spread among 
the prisoners (for news does spread among them some- 
how) of how No. 3708 had acted at his trial. Soon 
the impression went around that he ‘^never killed 
nobody.” It could not be said who first voiced this 
notion, but it prevailed among the convicts. One 
day when he and another prisoner were privileged to 
talk, the man made this belief among the prisoners 
known to him. He listened quietly, made no reply 
and at once changed the conversation to another sub- 
ject. 

The warden of the penitentiary had been closely 
observing him, and whether from sympathy with the 
prevailing sentiment among the convicts or from his 
own observations, or both, he began to have the same 
opinion as to the prisoner’s guilt. 

But there was one man connected with the institu- 


NO. 3708 


187 


tion who conceived a deep dislike for No. 3708. 
Strange to say, it was the chaplain. It came about in 
this way: During the first three or four months of 
his imprisonment the prisoner had at various times 
talked with a number of his fellow-convicts. At such 
times he did not exhort them or even talk religion to 
them, hut he always aimed to draw their attention 
away from their surroundings and to drop a word 
that, without his appearing to teach, would cause 
them to think of other and better things. 

On Sunday afternoons the prisoners were privi- 
leged to hold a meeting at which any who wished 
might speak. Sometimes they called on each other 
to take part. The chaplain had one day preached a 
sermon on the universal degeneracy of man, showing 
that all mankind are by nature depraved and prone to 
sin, and that the only means of escaping this natural 
depravity and the only hope of salvation after death 
is the acceptance of the means of grace through the 
blood of the Lamb. 

At their next Sunday afternoon meeting some of 
the prisoners who had talked with No. 3708 wanted 
to hear from him, and called on him to say some- 
thing. He talked modestly, but with entire confi- 
dence. 

Among other things he said: ^^We prisoners, shut 
off as we are from association with the people of the 
world at large, are apt to feel that we are also shut 


188 


THE LAEGER FAITH 


off from God. Nothing could be a greater mistake. 
Human agencies, forces outside of ourselves, may 
confine our bodies here. But no human agency out- 
side ourselves can keep us away from God or keep us 
out of a conscious relationship with God. 

^‘We are here presumably because some law of the 
state has been violated. The divine law needs no 
penitentiaries or jails to enforce obedience. Every 
violation of this law carries with it its own penalty 
and each person metes out to himself his own punish- 
ment. Moreover, the divine law is not broken. We 
may break ourselves upon it, but the law remains in- 
tact — eternal. 

“The notion that we are born into the world de- 
graded, sinful and predisposed to go contrary to God’s 
law seems to me an error. 

“I believe, on the contrary, that it is natural for 
each of us to be in harmony with nature — that is to 
say, with God; to be good, not bad; to do righteous- 
ness and not evil. 

“The practical thing for each of us to do is not 
to waste time in anguish of spirit over the past, but 
to realize the ever-present, all-pervading love of our 
common Father. God’s presence within us and about 
us is a reality as much as is the existence of the at- 
mosphere. 

“If we can accept this truth and live in apprecia- 
tion of it, we shall at once, prisoners though we be, 


NO. 3708 


189 


come into a freedom of the soul beside which the lib- 
erty of our bodies to go where we will is a small 
matter.” 

He had been given the closest attention, and when 
he sat down some of his listeners took a long breath. 

The chaplain was annoyed. It was not customary 
to rebuke any one there, but he said: “I trust the 
brother who has just spoken will yet see the error of 
his views, repent and come to Christ, Tor there is 
none other name under heaven given among men 
whereby we must be saved.’ ” 

The convicts seemed not to be impressed just as the 
chaplain was. They took an evident interest in what 
had been said, and showed their interest by insisting 
at every subsequent meeting on hearing from No. 
3708, until it became customary for him to give them 
a weekly lecture of ten or fifteen minutes in length. 
His talks were full of love and spirituality, but thor- 
oughly unorthodox. In the hearts of nearly all his 
hearers he had superseded the chaplain. The latter 
saw this, and was bitter in his heart toward the man 
who, himself a convict, was leading away from the 
right path the few who had professed religion. 

An incident soon occurred, however, which greatly 
relieved the chaplain. When No. 3708 had served a 
little more than six months of his life sentence, he 
was one day summoned to the warden’s office, and 
there introduced to the governor of the state. It 


190 


THE LAKGEK FAITH 


seemed to him the governor shook hands with more 
heartiness than he would have expected to be shown 
toward a convict. The governor looked at him search- 
ingly as they shook hands, and then, after asking him 
to he seated, said: 

‘^Let me ask you one or two questions: Did you 
shoot the man for whose killing you were sent here 

As the prisoner hesitated the governor added: ‘Tve 
learned that you were silent at your trial, but some 
doubt has been raised as to your guilt, and if you’re an 
innocent man you ought not to be here.” 

For a moment a passionate longing for liberty took 
possession of the prisoner. The next instant the 
thought came that if he were released as innocent the 
real culprit would be hunted and likely found. Would 
he now undo all he had done for Dick, and thus re- 
gain his lost freedom? In five seconds he had de- 
cided. He answered quietly and firmly: ‘Tardon me, 
governor, but I don’t care to make any statement on 
that subject.” 

^Tardon you? That’s what I had thought of doing, 
possibly, but I want your statement.” 

^T meant ^excuse me from answering,’ ” said the 
prisoner, with a smile. 

After looking at him a few moments the governor 
said: ‘^Another question: Do you know a man 
named Richard T. Briggs, or one named John Mc- 
Coy?” 


NO. 3708 


191 


For the first time during the interview the prisoner 
exhibited some emotion as he replied: “I must again 
ask to be excused from answering.” 

The governor got up impatiently, walked across 
the room and held a conversation in a low tone with 
the warden. Then he returned, and, drawing a paper 
from his coat pocket, handed it to the prisoner, say- 
ing: 'Td have taken greater pleasure in doing this 
Mr. — Doe, if you had shown a little more interest in 
yourself. That is an unconditional pardon.” 

The prisoner turned pale and said in a low voice: 
'Thank you, governor.” Then, as he mechanically 
looked over the document, he said: "I will answer 
your first question now. I did not shoot that man.” 

'Tm satisfied of that,” said the governor, "or I 
wouldn’t have issued the pardon, but I can’t imagine 
why an innocent man should act as you’ve done.” 
The prisoner remaining silent, the governor added: 
"I may as well tell you that the man Briggs says he 
did the shooting, a^d McCoy corroborates the story. 
They both claim it was done in self-defense. Briggs 
says he was afraid of being lynched by the Buck 
Brady gang and skipped out, and as soon as he heard 
that you had been convicted and sent up he came to 
me, told his story and surrendered himself. But he 
has no idea who you are.” 

"Their story is exactly true,” said the prisoner. 


192 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


^‘Tlie bartender was reaching for his gun when he 
was shot/^ 

‘'But why didn^t you tell this before?’^ asked the 
governor. 

“You wouldn’t understand/’ said the prisoner, 
“without a long explanation. My life was worthless 
at that time, and — Briggs had once done me a great 
kindness.” 

The governor gave a whistle ending in a falling 
scale. “Well,” he said, “I’ve seen some strange phases 
of life here in the west, but that beats my time.” 

It was Saturday afternoon. The prisoner having 
expressed a wish to take leave of some of the other 
convicts, the warden said: 

“A good many of them will want to say good-by to 
you. Why not stay over Sunday, not as a prisoner, 
but as my guest, and meet them to-morrow after- 
noon? They’ll want to hear you, anyway.” It was so 
arranged. 

The warden was right. They did want to hear him. 
Happy is the preacher who has so large and so sym- 
pathetic an audience as No. 3708 had that Sunday. 
For twenty minutes he held their undivided atten- 
tion. They knew he had been pardoned, and when 
at the close of his address he spoke of it as the last he 
would be likely to make to them, many of his hearers 
were visibly affected. The warden having given per- 
mission to all to take leave of him, for half an hour 


NO. 3708 


193 


they gave him an ovation. Some with moist eyes 
gave him a silent pressure of the hand. Many ex- 
pressed the hope to meet him when their time expired. 
One old man said: ‘Tm a lifer, and it ain’t likely I’ll 
ever get out to see you, hut you’ve made life better for 
all of us here.” The general sentiment was pretty ac- 
curately expressed by one convict who remarked to 
his neighbor as they passed out of the room: ‘Tm 
glad he’s got his pardon all right enough, but I wish 
we could trade off our parson for him.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE LARGER FAITH. 

When Rev. Mr. Winter had been at Young’s ranch 
two months he said one day to Young: “I feel per- 
fectly well and able to return to Ohio, but I should 
like to stay here awhile longer, if you’ll keep me.” 

“Your company has been a pleasure to Ned and 
me, and we’ll be glad to have you stay as long as you 
feel like it,” replied Young. 

“Sure!” assented Ned. 

“Then I want to pay you two months’ board,” said 
the minister. “What will be right?” 

“Oh,” said Young, “the extra expense to us is al- 
most nothing; just stay as our guest.” 

“No; I’d like to live with you awhile, but I must 
pay my way,” said the minister. 

“Well, if you feel that way, $10 a month will cover 
all the expense,” said Young. 

“That seems to me too little. I’m perfectly will- 
ing to pay $20 a month,” replied the minister, hand- 
ing out two bills of that denomination. 

“We’ll compromise at $15,” said Young, and he 


THE LARGER FAITH 


195 


added, smiling: shall hope your stay will he ex- 

tended, for at that rate we^ll be making money off 
you.” 

Mr. Winter’s improvement had, indeed, been rapid. 
From the day of his arrival he had begun to eat well 
and sleep well. Soon he began to take walks and to 
chop wood. He had carried on the last-named exer- 
cise to such an extent that Young told him he had a 
year’s supply on hand. 

The following extract from a letter he wrote to his 
wife shortly after the incident above related will show 
something of how he felt in other respects: 

“I do not attach much importance to the doctor’s 
injunction not to think of returning for several 
months; for I feel as well as I ever did and am satis- 
fied there is nothing the matter with my lungs. Still, 
if you all remain well I want to stay here awhile, pos- 
sibly for a few months. 

‘T have told you that Mr. Young, with whom I am 
staying, impresses me as being an extraordinary man. 
I have learned nothing of his history save that he was 
born in New York. He seems not to wish to talk of 
himself, and of course I would not question him. I 
feel sure that he is not in hiding, for he is not only 
one of the best men, but one of the most spiritual men 
I have ever met. Seeing him out at work with his 
rough clothes on, one might take him for a common 
laborer or a ranchman. Get him started to talking on 
books in his pleasant sitting room of an evening and 


196 


THE LARGER FAITH 


you’d think him some professor of English literature 
living out here in disguise. 

^‘But it is another side of this many-sided man that 
interests me most, and that, in truth, is keeping me 
here now. When I came here I found on his table a 
well-worn bible and a copy of Cruden’s Concordance, 
the same I have used. On the book shelves were Mat- 
thew Henry’s and Meyer’s Commentaries on the Bible, 
besides several books and many articles in periodicals 
which I had never read touching modern criticism 
of the bible. Mr. Young never makes a display of his 
knowledge on any subject, and is difficult to draw out 
at times, but I found when I succeeded in getting 
him started that he has been a profound student not 
only of the bible but of religion. I do not think he 
belongs to any church, but there are few men so well 
fitted to teach religion. I must say to you frankly, my 
dear, that after having been twenty-five years in the 
ministry I am not sure but this western ranchman 
knows more of God than I have learned. I am going 
to stay here with a view of learning. I have not told 
Mr. Young anything of this, and shall not, but I con- 
fess to you that some things he has said have made me 
feel that a large part of all my work has been devoted 
to the mere shell of religion. I grieve to think that 
this is true, but I have always tried to live up to my 
honest convictions and I mean to do that now. 

am taking a second course in theology, then, 
with a man for a teacher who was never in a theo- 
logical seminary, probably, and who would admit be- 
ing unorthodox. And that reminds me: The only 
harsh things I have heard him say were directed at 
orthodoxy, which he looks upon as opposed to re- 


THE LARGER FAITH 


197 


ligion. Usually he seems to have a boundless charity 
for all mankind and for everything. He has a re- 
markable faculty of arousing love toward himself. The 
very animals love him and the people here who know 
him seem almost to reverence him. I cannot account 
for it, unless it is because he loves others, and love 
begets love.” 

This letter created no anxiety in the mind of Mrs. 
Winter. She had unbounded faith in her husband, 
and was confident not only that he would do what was 
right, but also that he would know what was right. 
She was gratified at the news of his good health, and 
filled with curiosity to see that Mr. Young who had 
made such an impression on the mind of her hus- 
band. 

While Young did not avoid the subject of religion 
in talking with Eev. Mr. Winter, he felt reluctant to 
obtrude his views upon the minister. He never sus- 
pected that the minister was trying to learn of him. 
In the few talks they had had on matters touching 
religion his arguments had been combated by Mr. 
Winter, and Young took it for granted that the min- 
ister regarded his views as unorthodox and, therefore, 
unsound. He feared he had once or twice exceeded 
the bounds of courtesy when drawn out by the min- 
ister’s arguments. For the idea of making a convert 
of Mr. Winter or of trying to change any of his be- 
liefs never entered Young’s mind. The minister was 


198 


THE LAEGER EAITH 


much older than himself, had been in the ministry a 
long time, and doubtless had well-settled views on 
all matters touching religion. 

Still, of late he noticed that Mr. Winter seemed dis- 
posed to talk on such subjects, and also much dis- 
posed to listen. It occurred to Young that the min- 
ister had determined to make a convert of him, and 
he resolved, if further pressed, to speak out frankly 
and openly. 

Opportunities were not lacking. One evening the 
minister said to him: “I have never heard you speak 
of the miracles performed by Jesus Christ. Do you 
believe in them?’’ 

^^Yes, and no,” answered Young. ^‘To get any un- 
derstanding of the miracles of Jesus we must remem- 
ber in the first place that we have a very imperfect 
account of him and his life — an account which prob- 
ably does him less than justice, even where it attempts 
to do him more. All we have are mere fragmentary 
statements of what He said and did, written years 
after the occurrences. 

^^In those times the belief in the supernatural was 
universal. Miracles were attributed to very many 
persons besides Jesus. But what are miracles? You 
say something supernatural. Strictly speaking, there 
is not and never was anything supernatural, and yet 
the world to-day is full of natural-supernaturalism. 
We do not even yet know much about nature. A few 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


199 


years ago the idea that persons hundreds of miles dis- 
tant from each other could speak and recognize each 
other’s voices would have seemed necessarily to in- 
volve a miracle. We now know it is entirely in ac- 
cordance with the laws of nature, and the Pharaohs 
might have had the telephone had the people of that 
day known as much of nature in this respect as do the 
people of to-day. You have seen what are called 
birthmarks?” 

^^Yes, frequently,” replied the minister. 

‘^^What causes them?” asked Young. 

^‘Well, I have always understood they were ac- 
counted for by a pre-natal condition of the mother,” 
said the minister. 

‘‘That is to say, a condition of the mother’s mind?” 

“Yes,” said the minister, “some strong impression 
on the mother’s mind.” 

“Is every birthmark a miracle?” asked Young. 

“No; they are not regarded as miracles,” said the 
minister. 

“No, because they are common,” said Young. “And 
yet every birthmark, in its last analysis, is the result 
of a thought, of the etfect of mind upon matter. Is 
not that so?” 

“Yes, I suppose it is,” assented the minister. 

“You have perhaps heard soldiers say, as I have, 
that many men in the army died of pure homesick- 
ness, without having any physical ailment?” 


200 


THE LARGER FAITH 


^^Yes, I have been told of such cases. Some of my 
acquaintances were said to have died in that way,” 
said the minister. 

“I have simply mentioned these as some of the 
hundreds of instances we have at hand of the effect 
of the mind, or of spirit, upon matter. Now, a num- 
ber of the miracles of Jesus consisted in the casting 
out of devils, or demons, the belief in which was uni- 
versal. At that time, too, the insane and demented 
of that country wandered about at will — as they do, 
in fact, to this day. Is it to be wondered at that upon 
such people — those supposing themselves to be filled 
with devils and those who were demented — the per- 
sonality of Jesus, of which we have so imperfect a 
description, should have had a soothing, quieting, 
or, if you please, a healing effect? Jesus undoubt- 
edly healed many others whose ills, like the ills of 
to-day, were largely mental rather than physical. 
His biographers evidently considered it necessary to 
invest him with supernatural powers, and the same 
power was claimed in those times for numerous other 
persons. Jesus Himself never made such a claim, and 
more than once shrank from appearing to perform 
miracles and from getting the name of doing so, en- 
joining those around him to say nothing about it. 

‘‘If you ask me, then, if I believe Jesus healed the 
sick, made the blind to see and the Lame to walk, I an- 
swer unhesitatingly. Yes. I believe he did all Ihese 


THE LARGEK FAITH 


201 


things in a natural way, and that they are all being 
done to-day in a natural way, without the use of 
medicines. 

you ask me if I believe Jesus ever did anything 
which was in its strict sense supernatural and incapa- 
ble of being performed to-day, I* answer. No. I re- 
peat, however, that our knowledge of nature and of 
natural powers and possibilities is yet so limited that 
it is difficult for us, even now, to say what is a mir- 
acle. 

^^All nature is a miracle, so far as our ability to ex- 
plain the processes of nature is concerned. We know 
that in the springtime the sap goes upward in tree 
life. We know that upon the rosebush the bud be- 
gins to swell and finally develops into the full-blown 
rose; that upon the grapevine is developed by slow 
and imperceptible degrees the perfect bunches of 
ripened grapes. But how this is done or why it is so 
is absolutely as far beyond our ken as is the turning 
of water into wine. So far as the how and why are con- 
cerned — ^that is to say, when it comes to explaining 
the process by which results are brought about — the 
resurrection of Lazarus after he had been dead four 
days was no greater miracle than is the coming into 
life and birth of a child.” 

For a time they sat silent. Then the minister said: 
‘Tt seems to me your views on miracles and your dis- 
belief in the supernatural are inconsistent with a bev 


202 


THE LARGER FAITH 


lief in special providences. You will admit, will you 
not, that God at times intervenes directly in the af- 
fairs of this world?” 

^^Not as you state it,” replied Young. ‘‘My belief 
is broader than that. I believe that God, through es^ 
tablished law, controls and directs the universe at all 
times.” 

“So do I,” said the minister. “I believe, too, in 
special providences.” 

“That is to say,” asked Young, “that the natural 
order of things is suspended or changed by Deity at 
particular times or places?” 

“Yes, if you choose to put it that way,” replied the 
minister. 

“Let us see,” said Young. “God is unchangeable. 
God’s laws, which are the laws of nature, the laws 
governing the universe, are immutable. Now, that 
for particular purposes or upon special occasions an 
unchangeable God w’ould or could suspend or alter 
the operation of immutable laws is to me unthink- 
able.” 

“But, Mr. Young, isn’t all this destructive of the 
very basis of the Christian religion?” 

“Certainly not,” replied Young. “As I once be- 
fore said, I look upon true Christianity as the final 
religion of mankind, embodying as it does in its es- 
sentials the essence of all true religion. In my judg- 
ment, the greatest hindrance to the wider diffusion of 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


203 


the Christian religion among mankind to-day is the 
foolish insistence, on the part of those who assume to 
speak for it, upon impossible beliefs in non-essential 
miracles and senseless supernaturalism/^ 

At another time, after the minister had been draw- 
ing Young out on similar questions for a time, he 
said: 

^‘What do you call your religious belief or doc- 
trine?” 

^^It would be a mistake,” replied Young, ^‘for you 
to suppose that my belief is either original with or 
peculiar to myself. There is nothing esoteric about it. 
I believe there are thousands, many of them from 
force of habit or of conventionality in the churches, 
who share my belief. I have never heard it given a 
name, but if I were to designate it I should call it — 
the larger faith.” 

‘Ts it pot a misnomer to call it a larger faith when 
there are so many things you don’t believe which are 
believed by the churches?” 

“I do not think so,” answered Young. belief 
is not necessarily large because it includes a great 
number of small things, especially if those things are 
not founded in reason and are unimportant if true. 
To me this faith of ours seems infinitely higher, 
deeper, broader, than the professed belief of any of 
the churches. It is as wide as the universe and does 


204 


THE LARGER FAITH 


not limit God by investing him with human quali- 
ties, frailties and passions/^ 

“I believe I’ll take a walk,” said the minister, after 
a pause. ‘‘1 feel the need of fresh air.” 

For a long time he walked in the starlight of the 
cloudless New Mexican night. As he walked, he ex- 
perienced an exaltation of spirit. His mental horizon 
seemed to expand, his spiritual vision to be clarified. 
Never had religion as a part of man’s nature seemed 
to him of so great importance as it seemed then. 
Never had he so clearly perceived the utter littleness 
and unimportance of all creeds. 

In the days that followed Young and his guest had 
many long talks which need not be recorded here. 

When at the end of five months Kev. Mr. Winter 
took his departure he said to Young: ^Tor the rest 
of my life I am going to preach the larger faith.” 


CHAPTEE XIX. 


MAUDE. 

From a very remote period in history writers have 
from time to time noted the effects upon the lives of 
men and nations of what in themselves seemed to be 
very trifling incidents. It is said the course of a 
stream has been changed by a pebble; that a decisive 
battle was once lost because the dinner of the com- 
mander on one side was badly cooked. A good many 
years ago attention was called to the extensive con- 
flagration which might originate in a small Are. Cer- 
tain it is that what seem to be very small circum- 
stances are often the starting points of more or less 
important events. 

At the boarding-house where Darrell made his 
home there lived a Mr. North, a gentleman of inde- 
pendent means and no family. This Mr. North was 
about flfty-five years old, very regular in his habits 
and fond of a game of whist, which he generally man- 
aged to have in the evening. During the three years 
he and Darrell had lived in the same house they had 
become well acquainted, and, for persons so dissim- 


206 


THE LARGER FAITH 


ilar in age, rather chummy. Mr. ^^’orth was in every- 
thing a thoroughgoing conservative. He was op- 
posed on principle to innovations, whether in politics, 
religion, business or social matters. He had some pet 
theories, one of which was that all men act from self- 
ish motives. Selfishness, he argued, was the main- 
spring of all action, whether of governments, com- 
munities or individuals. It is but fair to him to say 
that in his daily life he did not seem to exemplify his 
own theory. He was generous, kind-hearted and 
careful not to offend others or infringe on their 
rights. Still, he insisted that he was selfish, like 
everybody else. When one day Darrell, referring to 
some beneficence which the old gentleman had con- 
ferred, taxed him with not living up to his own 
theory, he replied: 

‘‘You take a wrong view altogether. I do these 
things simply because it gives me pleasure to do them. 
It is pure selfishness on my part.’^ 

Darrell one evening remarked that the next day 
he had to go to the city of E . 

“How long are you going to be in E asked 

Mr. North. 

“One day, possibly two,” answered Darrell. 

“I have an old college classmate up there,” said Mr. 
North, “whom I have not seen for years, Tom Briggs, 
a druggist. I wish youM call on him if you get time. 
I’ll give you a note of introduction.” 


MAUDE 


207 


have time to see him,” said Darrell. 

When Darrell had finished his business for the day 

at E he called on Mr. Briggs at his drug store 

and presented the letter of introduction. Mr. Briggs, 
having read the letter, treated Darrell cordially, asked 
many questions about their friend North, and before 
he left invited him to take dinner and spend the 
evening with the Briggs family, an invitation which 
Darrell accepted. 

That evening he met Mrs. Briggs and Miss Maude 
Briggs. He had accepted the invitation almost per- 
functorily, and largely because he had nothing else 
to do. Before the evening was over, however, he felt 
it would have been a great misfortune to him not to 
have met this family, while at the same time it seemed 
to him he had never appeared to so great disadvan- 
tage. Although he was not what is called a society 
man, he was yet quite accustomed to the usages of 
polite society and to associating with people at vari- 
ous social functions. He was neither a boy nor a 
neophyte in matters social, and yet when for the first 
time he met Maude Briggs he felt himself blushing 
and at a loss for something to say. He tried to shake 
off this feeling and regain his usual composure, but 
with poor success. He felt irritated that neither his 
friend North nor the girl’s father had told him there 
was a Miss Briggs, so that he might not have been 
taken by surprise. 


THE LARGER FAITH 


;^8 

In the course of the evening Darrell, more for the 
purpose of trying to get relief from the embarrass- 
ment which annoyed and irritated him than because 
he wanted to hear any piano playing, asked Miss 
Briggs to favor them with some music. 

The truth was that Darrell had once thought he 
liked music, but at the boarding-house where he lived 
was a Miss Crites who was accustomed to sit down 
and thump the piano from one end of the keyboard 
to the other in a way that exhibited great facility in 
the use of her fingers, but was anything but pleasing 
to Darrell. He thought she could play anything in 
the world — but music. And then she had a voice — 
such a voice! She could sing, he had often heard it 
said, away up to high something, he had forgotten 
what, but it was considerably higher than the point 
— if there was a point — at which her voice sounded 
well to him. She professed to be fond of ‘‘Annie 
Laurie,” and Darrell had heard her often sing in a 
voice which could be heard somewhere in the next 
block: 


“Mac Swelton’s bra-a-ays are baw-ne-e-e “ 

till he wished old Mac Swelton and his brays had 
never been invented. 

When Darrell asked Maude Briggs to play she 
didn’t say that she was out of practice; she didn’t run 
the piano stool either up or down. She seated herself. 


MAUDE 


209 


and instead of the preliminary chase up and down 
the keys which Darrell was expecting she touched 
the keys as if she loved them, and glided off quietly 
into one of Mendelssohn’s songs without words. The 
girl evidently had plebeian tastes, for after one or two 
other melodies Darrell found himself listening to the 
tune of an old song not at all fashionable and scorn- 
fully rejected by most pianists as not being classic. 
Even this old song Miss Briggs played without those 
variations in which amateur pianists so love to in- 
dulge. When she had finished the tune Darrell asked 
her to sing, and in answer to an inquiry as to what 
kind of songs he liked he said — unblushing liar that 
he had become — that ^^Annie Laurie” was one of his 
favorites. After a short prelude Miss Briggs sang the 
song with subdued feeling and, as Darrell thought, 
with the finest taste. It may have been in a lower 
key than Miss Crites used; certain it was that Miss 
Briggs didn’t squeal on the high notes. 

Darrell was for once entirely sincere in expressing 
the pleasure he felt in listening to both the playing 
and singing. 

Before taking his leave of the Briggs family Dar- 
rell was intrusted with various messages of good will 
to Mr. North and — what 'was much more important to 
him — was asked to come and see them whenever he 
should be in the city. He was not exactly lying when 
he said he expected to be in E again within a 


210 


THE LARGER FAITH 


month, though before coming to that house lie had no 
such expectation. 

He was in E again within the time he had 

stated, and he spent another evening at the Briggs 
household. About a fortnight later he was there 
again. After the first few visits he quit giving 

Ananias reasons for coming to E so often, and it 

is to the credit of his intelligence that he had sense 
enough to quit this in time to preserve some reputa- 
tion for veracity with the Briggs family. 

After awhile, in some way, Darrell and Maude 
Briggs got to writing letters to each other. Then, in 
the first letter after one of his visits, he addressed her 
as ^^My Dear Maude,” and in her reply, sent the day 
after the receipt of his letter, she addressed him as 
^‘My Dear John.” But why prolong the recital? It 
was in the case of these two young people the story 
as old as humanity, yet as new as the freshly opened 
rose. “All the world loves a lover,” because in every 
pure love, whether of man and woman for each other, 
of parent for child or of man for mankind, there is 
something of divinity — something which makes the 
lover God-like. And thus it is that while hatreds 
and enmities are forgotten, while memories of na^ 
tions and of human greatness are lost, the story of 
love will have an ever-renewed interest so long as man 
is man. 

Darrell could not long keep to himself the secret 


MAUDE 


211 


of his great happiness. He first told his friend North, 
who promptly claimed all the credit of the arrange- 
ment on account of his letter of introduction, a claim 
which Darrell admitted without argument. In writ- 
ing to Young he said at the end of his letter: 

supposed myself to be a confirmed bachelor 
when I saw you — at any rate, I had no idea of marry- 
ing. Since then I have met and become engaged to 
the sweetest woman in the world. The time of our 
marriage is not fixed yet, but it will be about next 
April or May. CanT you arrange to come to our 
wedding?’^ 

When Young got this letter he had been thinking 
seriously of leaving his ranch, at least for a time. He 
fcdt that he had mastered himself, or, as he put it, 
that he had learned to possess his soul. He had not 
fully decided where he would go or what he would 
do, but the idea of doing what he could to help others, 
w'hich had first taken possession of him long before, 
had now become a fixed purpose. He had been wait- 
ing to be sure of himself. Now it was only a ques- 
tion of where to go and what to do. 

Ned Long, since being at the ranch, had made such 
progress in his studies that he was a well-informed 
young man of his age, especially in history, in which 
study he took a keen delight. In the matter of look- 
ing after Young’s property Ned was even more care- 


212 


THE LARGER FAITH 


ful than Young himself. Young knew that every- 
thing left in Ned’s care would be as safe as if he were 
there. In this frame of mind he answered Darrell’s 
letter, congratulating him heartily, and adding: 

‘‘It is quite probable I shall accept your invitation 
and be present at your wedding. You once asked if 
I intended to remain here always. I have been think- 
ing for some time of going away, but have not decided 
just where. I shall probably leave here in the spring, 
for a time at least. 

“By the way, you did not mention the name of your 
fiancee. I presume she lives in C and the wed- 

ding is to be there, as you said nothing to the con- 
trary.” 

When Darrell called on Maude after receiving this 
letter he told her he had invited to the wedding his 
western ranchman friend who had taken care of him 
when he had a sprained ankle, and of whom he had 
spoken to her before. 

“I shall be glad to see him,” said Maude, “and to 
thank him for what he did for you. But what will 
he look like if he comes? Will he wear his cow-boy 
clothes?” 

“I don’t think we need worry about his looks or 
his clothes,” answered Darrell. “The probability is 
that he’ll outshine the other men present, including 
the groom.” 


MAUDE 


213 


“I’m not afraid of that,” said Maude, “but I want to 
see him.” 

Darrell wrote a short letter to Young, in the course 
of which he said: 

“The truth is, I was too happy to he very coherent 
when I wrote to you last. I’m still happy, but I’ll try 
to be coherent this time. The name of my affianced 

wife is Maude Briggs, and her home is in E , 

Ohio, up on the lake, you know. The wedding will be 
at her home, of course. I have told Maude of you, 
and she is anxious to meet you and thank you for 
what you did for me.” 

Alas for the man who thinks he has mastered him- 
self! When Young got this letter it brought back 
with a rush all his past life, all his past anguish, and 
his first impulse was to go over to Vigil’s and take a 
drink. Then the time subsequent to his great grief 
passed before him, and he said to himself: “No, what- 
ever of hell I suffer hereafter, whisky will not be any 
part of it.” Hastily mounting his horse, he started 
for the ranch at a pace that made the bystanders look 
on in surprise. 

“Goes off like he'd been sent for sudden,” re- 
marked one. 

“They say that gray can go to his ranch in a little 
cver’n hour,” said another. 

“Y’ ought to see th’ way he takes care of his horse, 


214 


THE LARGER FAITH 


though,” put in another. “When he gets home a 
big blanket goes on, covers the horse from head to 
tail, ^nd it stays on for’n hour; then th’ horse gets a 
feed.” 

don’t believe in sidewheelers, generally,” said 
the first speaker; ^^they can’t stand the racket; but 
that one of Young’s is a good one all right enough.” 

“Young says the only trouble is they ride so easy 
that fellers ride ’em to death without knowin’ it,” 
said one of the lookers-on. 

“Don’t know but he’s right,” said another. “His 
gray c’n stay with any of ’em, anyhow.’^ 

That evening Young said to Ned Long: “Ned, did 
you ever drink anything — beer or whisky or wine?” 

“No, I never did,” said Ned. 

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Young. “You’re 
most likely to take the first drink from a desire to be 
friendly; then when you feel a little excited, either 
very good or very bad. I wouldn’t drink at all.” 

Young seldom gave advice to Ned unless asked. 
Ned was so anxious to please and to follow his guard- 
ian that it wasn’t necessary. 

After what Young said Ned would have lost a 
limb rather than take a drink of liquor. 

A few days later Young wrote to Darrell saying: “1 
will be at your wedding. Let me know the date in 
ample time.” 


CHAPTEE XX. 


THE HERETIC. 

When Eev. David Winter returned to C from 

New Mexico he was urged by many members of his 
last congregation again to accept the pastorate of the 
First Presbyterian church. The church had not been 
in a flourishing condition since Mr. Winter’s resigna- 
tion. The church debt had been such a burden that 
the congregation had felt unable to employ a regular 
pastor, and the pulpit was fllled — or partially fllled — 
from week to week with ^^supplies.” 

To all of those who asked Mr. Winter to accept a 
call from the congregation he replied that he ex- 
pected to withdraw from the Presbyterian ministry 
and from the church and become an independent 
preacher. Some of those to whom he made this state- 
ment were greatly shocked; others, after talking with 
him, approved his course and expressed an intention 
of attending his church, provided he preached in that 
city. In the course of a few weeks a number of per- 
sons had become sufficiently interested to look around 
for an auditorium with a view of having him preach 


216 


THE LARGER FAITH 


to them. Finding no other suitable room, they se- 
cured the use of a theater, and the first meeting was 
announced for the next Sunday. 

Mr. Winter found himself facing a large audience 
upon his first appearance as an independent preacher. 
Very diverse motives had brought the members of 
the assembly together. Some of them were former 
attendants at the church where Mr. Winter had last 
preached, who believed in him and in his preaching; 
some were persons who had heard something of his 
treatment by the officers of his former congregation 
and who wanted to hear him^^give it to the Presbyteri- 
ans,” while still others, knowing of his withdrawal 
from the ministry and the church to which he had be- 
longed, expected that he would take a fiing at religion 
generally. Darrell had induced his friend North to 
go with him, though after some grumbling on the part 
of the old gentleman. 

^^Why couldn’t the damned preacher stick to his 
knitting,” he said, ‘^and preach where he belonged? 
I don’t have much use for religion, but when I do 
have, my mother’s bible will be good enough for me!” 

^^By the way,” said Darrell, ^Vhat did you pay that 
oculist $17 for yesterday?” 

^^Why, for fitting my eyes with a pair of glasses. 
They’re fine ones, too — each one exactly suited to 
the eye. That fellow understands his business.” 

‘‘Why didn’t you get a pair of glasses like your 


THE HERETIC 


217 


parents did?” said Darrell. ‘^You could have got 
them ready made for about 80 cents and saved some- 
thing over $16.” 

‘^You’re going to the dogs, John, fast,” growled the 
old man. ^^Glasses and religion haven’t anything to 
do with each other, and you know it.” 

With but few preliminaries Mr. Winter announced 
his text and preached a sermon about twenty-five 
minutes in length, which is here given in full: 

Jf we love one another, God dwelleth in us and 
His love is perfected in us.’ I. John, iv., 12. 

^The Garden of Eden story is so familiar that we 
need not rehearse its details. As an example of an- 
cient literature it is of great interest and value. It is 
dramatic in quality. It is poetic in its style. It is ar- 
tistic in its arrangement of the plot and in its adjust- 
ment of dramatic action. But theology has chosen 
to make it also an inspired proclamation of the origin 
of sin and of saving religion for the human race. 

“The masses of Jewish and Christian people have 
indorsed this estimate of the story. We have unhesi- 
tatingly accepted it as the fundamental enactment of 
the Christian religion. We base our systems of 
theology upon it. We plant our churches upon its 
statements. It inspires our catechisms. It deter- 
mines our confessions of faith and our articles of be- 
lief. We have held it in superstitious reverence. We 
have been taught that it would be sacrilegious, and so 


218 


THE LAKGEK FAITH 


dangerous to our eternal interests, for us to venture 
to criticise this story. And so we have given it little 
rational study. Possibly it may he excusable in us to 
investigate the story and the claims set up for it with 
a little more care than we have been doing. If it is 
found to he rational and profitable, it will thus be- 
come of greater value for us. If it is in any manner 
irrational, then we cannot afford either to believe it 
ourselves or to attribute its authority to God. Such 
a study must not be in the spirit of impious denuncia- 
tion; nor yet of superstitious veneration. '. We must 
sincerely seek to understand the rational value of this 
Garden story. 

‘‘Laying prejudice aside, we must concede that this 
story is not in harmony with modem knowledge of 
the orderly forces of nature as they are manifest in 
the process of creation. If the plot of the story were 
to be recast so that it might harmonize with the ac- 
cepted science of evolution it would become a new 
story. For the story of the Garden and the story of 
science cannot be tortured into harmony of interpre- 
tation. But this point we do not wish to enlarge 
upon. It is mentioned merely to show that the story 
of the Garden cannot be rationally estimated as an 
inerrant transcript of inspiration. And so our most 
reverent acceptance of it as such can determine 
neither the fact of our moral righteousness nor of our 
religious fidelity. 


THE HERETIC 


219 


^By their fruits ye shall know them’ is the New 
Testament rule of judgment. Under the terms of this 
rule we may estimate the value of each human insti- 
tution according to the measure and quality of its ap- 
plied force or influence. Because Caesar and Caesar- 
ism have not been of value to human society we judge 
that it were better to abandon them. If Jesus and his 
religion have been of value then we may estimate 
them as worthy of approval and perpetuation. Has 
the theology which represents the story of Eden ac- 
tually accomplished good results for humanity? Has 
it done for man all which his welfare has required? 
In answer we are compelled to admit that it has sig- 
nally failed to meet the issues raised in the facts of 
social deformity. Nor has it kept up to the line of the 
ideal concept of human achievement. It has been 
weighed in the balance, and it is found to be wanting. 

“And so the Christian of to-day cannot be satisfied 
with the superstitious religion of creed and ceremony 
of the past. He asks for a living religion. He wants 
a Christlike Christianity. And such a religion has 
not been found in association with the story of the 
Garden. 

“But the God of the Garden story is not the God of 
whom Jesus told us during his ministry in Palestine. 
From Eden comes the story of an angry and vengeful 
God. From Galilee we hear the story of a Father who 
will not break the bruised reed; whose heart follows 


220 


THE LARGER FAITH 


the prodigal son with the prayer of affection, and 
never with a curse or a threat. 

‘^And here we meet two distinct types of religion. 
We cannot indorse them both. In genius they are re- 
pellent and not homogeneous. One of them has been 
given a test of four thousand years. And it has not 
been a success. Its history is a tragedy of failure. 
It has told man only of an angry God who holds over 
him the menace of an eternal threat. This of neces- 
sity has taught him either to hate or to fear God. And 
surely neither one of these emotions can refine human 
lives. It has told all human beings that they are vile 
and worthless rebels; sinners who are fit only to asso- 
ciate with devils in hell. There is no more positive 
way for training the child into a life of sin than to 
constantly tell him how very vile he is. Under such 
religious infiuences it is not strange that sin has not 
been erased and society purified. The only wonder 
is that the beneficent forces of nature have been able, 
in spite of such adverse infiuences, to keep our race 
in the ordained pathway of its ever-increasing excel- 
lency. 

‘‘Why, then, shall we not turn away from this dread- 
ful tragedy and seek to usher in among men the reli- 
gion of the loving son of a loving God? Superstition 
has already ruled the thought of the world too long. 
It is but natural that in its far-away beginnings 
human thought should have been largely, and possi- 


THE HERETIC 


bly wholly, superstitious. In the light of modem 
knowledge we have no right to assume that our race 
was initiated into this world in possession of its high- 
est possible measure of attainment. And so we can- 
not regard mankind at the present day as the de- 
praved offspring of initial ancestors who were physic- 
ally and mentally and morally perfect beings, who 
afterward fell from such heights of quality, into such 
depths of depravity, as to fasten the hereditary guilt 
of hopeless and damning sin upon each soul of the 
oncoming generations of their offspring. But we are 
rather to consider humanity as slowly but surely ad- 
vancing along an ever upward pathway. And this is 
leading man away from the lower conditions of his 
primitive estate and into such possibilities as we at 
present may not be able to foretell. 

‘^And so in his primal weakness and ignorance it is 
but natural that man’s concepts should have been 
superstitional in quality. They must have been so. 
He could not have grasped the sublime facts which 
nature is revealing to men to-day. He could not un- 
derstand nature. And so he invented for himself the 
supernatural. He planted a superhuman God on a 
supernatural throne as master and monarch among 
the forces which he felt, and which to him appeared 
to be in antagonism among themselves. 

‘‘And this supernatural God, invested with super- 
natural power and authority, was for him a satis- 


222 


THE LARGER FAITH 


factory explanation of the varied phenomena by which 
he found himself surrounded. Such a being of course 
might exercise rightful authority over man. It was 
his right to command. And it was man’s duty to 
obey. In case of man’s disobedience then G-od must 
be angry. And then it became his rightful duty to 
punish the wrongdoer. It was also his privilege to 
determine upon what terms and conditions such pun- 
ishment might be withheld. And so God came to be 
regarded as the inventor of certain forms of penance 
and sacrifice and sacramental ritualism, in the observ- 
ance of which man was to be released from the pun- 
ishment which sin merited. All this constituted 
man’s primary religion. It was also unnatural and 
unauthorized superstition. And so all our stock of 
knowledge and religion reaches us through lineal 
descent from man’s primal superstitions. 

^‘In matters of knowledge we have laid aside these 
earlier misconceptions as we have come into the 
higher concepts of the sublime unities of nature. But 
in matters of religion we refuse to surrender the old 
superstitions. We deny our right to do so upon the 
ground that they are direct gifts from God himself, 
and so not to be regarded as of less sanctity than God 
himself, who is their author and giver. And so in all 
churches we find emphasis still laid upon the observ- 
ance of certain ceremonials. And in such observance 
we are taught to expect to escape the otherwise in- 


THE HERETIC 


223 


flicted punishments of God. Now, this religious su- 
perstition has come naturally into human experience. 
It has observed a natural place and order in the evolu- 
tion of religion. But all observant, thoughtful and 
sincere religionists are coming to ask if all this crud- 
ity or superstition may not now be eliminated from 
religion to its own advantage. 

^‘If this may be done it will of necessity reduce re- 
ligion to the very simple terms under which it was 
taught and exemplified by Jesus. However natural 
religious superstition may have been in the past, it 
is distinctly unnatural to-day. However helpful it 
may have been, its usefulness seems to be now wholly 
outgrown. For at the present time it is not serving 
to make men wiser. Nor is it making them better. 
All which may be claimed for the superstitions of 
theology is the possible fact that they may not be 
making men and society the worse, and even this 
claim may be doubted. 

^^When we consider the vast volume of existing 
moral depravity and social corruption and personal 
suffering which prevail in the very midst of Chris- 
tian civilization, and when we observe the immense 
expenditure of religious energy which fails to correct 
such evils, then we must become entirely dissatisfied 
with this inert and fruitless quality of religion. We 
want something having aggressive value against 
wrong. We want a religion of positive force for good. 


224 


THE LARQEE FAITH 


We want an objective religion. We want a religion 
whose altars of worship are in the temple and in thb 
home, and in the office, and in the school, and in the 
halls of legislation, and in the courts of civil proced- 
ure. 

‘'And this is the very kind of religion which J esus 
undertook to teach the world two thousand years ago. 
But the world has been a dull pupil. We have not 
yet learned the truth of the fatherhood of God and 
the universal brotherhood of man. Shall we not then 
join our humble efforts with an experiment which 
seems about to be undertaken? This is the experi- 
ment of superseding the old religion of superstition 
and creed and fear with the religion of love and 
brotherly service. If we will at last make operative 
the simple but lofty religion of the Nazar ene we may 
accomplish such results of human regeneration as the 
old religion of superstition is not qualified even to 
undertake. 

“Jesus is understood to have led a life of lowly 
purity. If we might find an unprejudiced account 
of his teachings we might also learn that the ancient 
wise men of the east and the modern wise men of the 
west may alike come to him to learn the solution of 
the problem of human regeneration. For his was the 
soul — the message, the mission of the idealist. And 
in his lofty thought he foresaw humanity saved with 
a near-at-hand salvation — a real and practical salva- 


THE HERETIC 


225 


tion. No future heaven can ever quite compensate us 
for our experiences in an earthly hell. We need an 
earthly paradise as surely as a heavenly home. And 
in his vision he saw them both. And so his was a 
message of love. Love was the keynote around which 
and in unison with which he sang his wonderful songs 
of mortal and immortal hope. He is said to have 
lifted the curtain that John might peer into the fu- 
ture. And there he saw no God of anger. He saw 
no prison hell. He saw no hopeless prodigals cast out 
from a father’s heart and home. But he saw a God 
of love. And through the ever open and welcoming 
doors of his home came pouring in all his children. 
They came from every world, and nation, and kin- 
dred and tribe. And every knee bowed down before 
the loving Father of them all. And they sang one 
song. 

“But his ear had already caught a prelude to this 
anthem of the angels. He had already seen another 
vision. And this had been a vision of mortal men. 
And they were a band of universal brothers. For 
they had learned at last that all men are of one blood. 
And so they dwelt in the peace of love in all the 
earth. They lived together. The competition and 
jealousy and the greed of commerce did not separate 
them. Some did not feed in luxury while others 
starved. Some did not array themselves in fine ap- 
parel while others perished in their rags. Some were 


226 


THE LAEGER FAITH 


not slain in battle that conquerors might possess their 
homes. And so the glory of humanity in the earth 
was as the glory of the angels in heaven. 

‘‘Such is the salvation which the religion of Jesus 
promises to our race. And there is not a single com- 
munity in any land where such a salvation is not at 
present needed. We need it here in our city. It is 
needed in our homes and in our offices, and in our 
stores — our private and our official citizens need it. 
And must we not also confess that our churches need 
it most of all? 

“Such is the only religion whmh men really do 
need to-day. It is the only religion which is worth 
the having. Our hungry world has starved too long 
on a diet of theological stones. And as His children 
have prayed for an egg — that miracle of potential 
life — has the heavenly Father given them only the 
scorpion, that symbol of stinging theological death? 
Shall we not then in His name seek out for men the 
bread of eternal life? And must not this bread of 
life feed every hungry mortal man? Would we save 
the perishing? Then in most cases let us heed the 
couplet: 

*' ‘Send not the priest with sacrament and prayers, 

But send the baker with his saving wares.’ 

“This religion of love and brotherhood implies 
plenty and peace among all men. Plenty of work for 
all and plenty of rest for each one. 


THE HERETIC 


m 

^^Sueh is the ideal religion of Jesus. But we have 
come far short of its realization. And this not be- 
cause it is impracticable, but only because supersti- 
tion has stifled the ideal. 

“The idealist is the world’s only savior. Supersti- 
tion cries out against life. Life means force and ad- 
vancement. It means the reaching after better re- 
sults. Superstition forbids progress. It demands 
preservation of the existing order of things. It chains 
the living man to a dead body. But he cries out ^Oh, 
wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from 
the body of this death?’ 

“Superstition cannot do this. It cannot give life its 
freedom. It has fostered heartless and unbrotherly 
selfishness among men. It has created the fatal in- 
justice of competition and greed as the genius of hu- 
man society. And now it says that the existing order 
of things cannot be changed. That it ought not to 
be changed. It says that men ought not to ask that 
it be changed. They should submit; they should en- 
dure without complaint, for such is the duty of God’s 
people, to bow to his will without repining. 

“But the idealist calls the sleeper to awake, and the 
dead to come forth to life. In the overthrow of super- 
stition he promises the salvation of love. Then why 
shall we not echo the cry of the divine idealist? And 
they who profess to worship Jesus, why shall they 


228 


THE LARGER FAITH 


not obey and imitate him? It was he who proclaimed 
against the superstitions handed down to us from the 
Garden of Eden. He held up before all men the truth 
that love is the fulfillment of the law; that man owes 
no duty which is not fulfilled in love. The life of 
love cannot bow down low enough to come into touch 
with the deadly ceremonies of superstition. Love 
alone fulfills the law. For there is but one law. And 
love is that law. Scientists and religionists alike 
sometimes refer to laws and forces. But in correct 
thinking only one force can be recognized. The law 
of geology is a part of the law of astronomy. There 
are no several laws nor forces of light, and heat, and 
chemistry, and electricity, and gravity, and cohesion, 
and repulsion, and centripetality, and centrifugality, 
nor of body, and of mind, and of spirit, nor of morals 
and religion. These are but so many expressions of 
one centric law or force which involves them all 
equally. This implies absolute affinity, unity and 
oneness between all items of nature. No two expres- 
sions in nature can be in fundamental disagreement. 
And this universal affinity and harmony constitute 
love. When our lives internally and externally are in 
unison with every natural expression of this one force 
and law of the universe, then we are living true lives 
of love. And short of this we are not fulfilling the 
law of God. 

^This law of love is natural. It is in no sense 


THE HERETIC 


229 


supernatural. Indeed, it is the only verity which is 
natural. Any variation from it is unnatural and ab- 
normal. This law is also very simple. It may be 
easily recognized. Its implied obligation, as affect- 
ing the individual, is to love self. Then to love the 
fellow-man. And also to love God. Here is the sub- 
stance of the religion of Jesus: ‘Thou shalt love the 
Lord thy God with all thy might, mind and strength, 
and thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’ On these 
equal commandments hangs all the law. But here 
comes the old question: How can man love God 
whom he hath not seen? Whom no man can see and 
live? For it is a law of the emotion of love that it 
must find both expression and response. Hand must 
touch hand. Eye must look into the depth of eye. 
Love must sing its song of the heart to the heart. 
How then are we able to love an inaccessible God? 
Superstition has said that its God is supernatural and 
inaccessible. But the religion of love knows nothing 
of such a God. Its God must be both natural and dis- 
coverable. Throughout organized space there can 
be no more than one fundamental force. And this 
one force must be vitalized unity, or living love. 
Nothing exists or is manifest apart from it. And in 
it we discover God. And so when we put ourselves 
into peaceful relation with any known order of na- 
ture we are loving God. Among the visible expres- 
sions of nature we come into no such measure of in- 


230 


THE LARGER FAITH 


timate association as with our fellow-men. And so 
Jesus teaches us that our love of our fellow-men is our 
highest expression of our love of God. All this shows 
us that we and all men are fundamentally parts of 
God. We are to love ourselves and keep in unison 
with nature because we are natural parts of God. And 
our neighbors are also parts of God. They are also 
part of ourselves. They, with us, are associate mem- 
bers of one body, even God. In loving them we ex- 
press self-love and appreciation. This is nature’s law 
requiring that we love our neighbors as we love our- 
selves. And that such conduct as we desire from oth- 
ers we should accord to them. 

‘Tf society were to make this law of love operative 
the vision of the idealist would be realized. As the 
superstitions and traditions of the religion descended 
from the Garden of Eden will not allow men seriously 
to undertake to realize this religion of J esus, it there- 
fore becomes the duty of every real Christian to elim- 
inate the last vestige of superstition from his thought. 
By coming out of the bondage of superstition we may 
come into the freedom of a larger faith. Into a larger 
measure of the richer faith that saves with the power 
of a present salvation. Into a faith which reveals to 
us a grander God. 

'‘Such a faith makes us one with an ever-present in- 
dwelling and overshadowing God. It will lay beside 
each aching heart another holy heart through which 


THE HEEETIC 


231 


is flowing a tide of tender, loving sympathy. It is a 
faith which looks not out across the valley of the 
shadow of death to find an eternal heaven. For its 
love builds its own heaven here in this world among 
God’s own children. This is a faith that sees God in 
every sun and world, in every mountain and raindrop, 
in every ’bird and flower. And because his God fls all 
and in all’ the man of such a faith sees in each lower 
order of being a kindred atom in the universal or- 
ganism. He cannot be unkind even to his dumb 
brothers. He also sees God in every man. Not one 
is so near or so far away, so weak or so strong, so pure 
or so deformed, but he realizes in him the kindred tie 
of brotherhood. 

^^Oh, that we might come into such a faith as this! 
In our reaching out after it we may well afford to 
turn aside from conventional sacraments of supersti- 
tion. No baptismal water is so holy, nor any sacra- 
mental wine so sacred, as is the love which recognizes 
all men in natural and equal brotherhood. Let us 
then choose as the captain of our salvation Him who 
has taught the fatherhood of God and the brother- 
hood of man. For of His teaching the prophecy is at 
last fulfilled: ^The darkness is passed, and the light 
of truth now shineth.’ And this word of light de- 
clares: ^He that loveth not his brother abideth in 
death.’ Therefore, flet us not love in word, but in 
deed and truth.’ For 'God is love, and he that dwell- 


232 


THE LARGEK FAITH 


eth in love, dwelleth in God, and God in him/ ^If 
we love one another, God dwelleth in us, and His love 
is perfected in us/ ’’ 

At the close of his sermon Mr. Winter said: 

^‘And now, my friends, a word of personal explana- 
tion is expected from me, and I will say here all that 
I expect ever to say on this subject. 

“For twenty-five years I was a minister of the 
Presbyterian church. I withdrew from the ministry 
and from membership in that church, and a decent 
regard for the opinion of those who have known me 
impels me to state briefly my reasons for adopting the 
course I have taken. Besides, I want no misappre- 
hension or misunderstanding concerning this mat- 
ter. It was not an easy thing for me to do, to sever 
the relations of a lifetime. I was brought up in the 
Presbyterian church. My relatives are members of 
it, some of them in the ministry. Toward the mem- 
bers of that church, its ministry and the church itself, 
I have none but the kindliest and most friendly feel- 
ings. There is not in my heart a single hostile feel- 
ing toward that or any other denomination. They 
are all doing good, and I believe they are all doing 
right as they see the right. But I felt impelled to 
withdraw from the Presbyterian church because the 
creed of the church, the dogmas, the articles of faith, 
were in my judgment hampering and hindering and 
overshadowing the cause of religion. I could not 


THE HERETIC 


233 


consistently join any other church, for the same ob- 
jection presented itself against any of the orthodox 
churches. If you ask me if I am no longer orthodox 
I must answer frankly, I am not. I believe that all 
religion is one, for religion is the spirit of God in 
man — the conscious knowledge of man’s relationship 
to God. 

‘‘You ask why I did not take this step before? The 
question is a pertinent one. I have always tried to do 
my duty as it was given me to see my duty. Last year 
for the first time in my life my health gave way. My 
physician ordered absolute rest and advised me to 
spend a few months in an arid climate. Through a 
friend I secured board with a ranchman in New 
Mexico. There, in a log cabin, twenty miles from a 
postoffice, I found a man from whom in a few months 
I learned more of mankind, of religion, of God, than 
I had before known. Unconventional, unassuming, 
simple, direct, without pretending to instruct, this 
western ranchman brushed aside the undergrowth of 
orthodoxy and showed me what, when I asked him to 
name it, he designated the larger faith. Hereafter, 
unhampered, undeterred, with malice toward none, 
with charity for all, I mean to preach that larger 
faith, the underlying principle of which is love.” 

After Mr. Winter had ceased speaking the chair- 
man of the committee that had engaged the audito- 
rium made a short statement. He said it had been 


234 


THE LARGER FAITH 


decided to continue the meetings just as long as the 
necessary expenses were raised by purely voluntary 
contributions; that a box was placed near the door 
into which those who wished to give something from 
time to time might deposit their contributions, but 
that no collections would be taken up at meetings. 
He further said that he had a subscription paper on 
which any persons who wished to do so might, after 
the dismissal of the meeting, subscribe whatever they 
felt like giving for the first year. When the congre'> 
gation had been dismissed one of the first men to put 
his name on the subscription list was Darrell’s ultra- 
conservative friend, North, and opposite his name he 
wrote $100. 


CHAPTEK XXI. 


A DISCOVERY. 

On one of Darrell’s visits to E some time after 

his engagement to Maude Briggs had become known 
to their immediate friends, she asked him to go with 
her and call on the family of Uncle Dr. Roberts, and 
Darrell, though reluctant to be thus put on exhibi- 
tion before Maude’s relatives, could do nothing but 
go. He found, however, that both Dr. and Mrs. Rob- 
erts were pleasant people to meet. Xo reference to 
the engagement of the young people was made till 
they were about to leave, when the doctor, intimating 
that he understood Darrell was to become a relative, 
invited him and Maude to come and take dinner with 
them the next time Darrell should be in town, add- 
ing: ‘^Our daughter, Corinne, will likely be at home 
then, and she will wish to meet you.” The invitation 
was accepted, it being understood that Maude would 
inform her aunt when Darrell would next be in the 
city. 

‘‘That is the cousin Corinne I’ve heard you speak 
of?” said Darrell on the way home. 


236 


THE LAKGER FAITH 


''Yes,” replied Maude, "and I must warn you 
against her in advance.” 

"How’s that?” asked Darrell. 

"Oh, she can play and sing and do everything else 
so much better than I can that I’m afraid you’ll fall 
in love with her.” 

"I’ll risk that, my dear,” replied Darrell. 

Nevertheless, when, a few weeks later, Darrell and 
Maude went to take dinner with the Koberts family, 
Darrell found Corinne Eoberts a very charming 
woman. She was older than Maude, and though Dar- 
rell did not fall in love with her he felt proud that he 
was soon to have such a woman for a cousin. Darrell, 
who was a close observer of people, noticed that while 
there was nothing about Corinne’s manner which in- 
dicated a desire on her part to dictate, or even to lead, 
those around her seemed naturally to defer to her and 
to regard her opinion as final. 

Before dinner, the doctor not having arrived, and 
while Mrs. Eoberts and Corinne were absent from the 
parlor, Darrell began idly turning over the pages of 
a large album. There were photographs of the Eob- 
erts and Briggs families, besides many persons whom 
Darrell did not know. Maude designated by name 
many of the photographs, schoolmates of Corinne and 
others. 

"Who is this?” asked Darrell, coming to a three^ 
quarter profile view of a full-bearded man apparently 


A DISCOVEBY 


237 


about his own age. ‘‘Seems to me Fve seen him 
somewhere.’’ 

“That’s a Mr. Horton, an editor who used to be 
here. He’s dead.” Then as Corinne entered the 
room while Darrell was still gazing at the picture 
Maude added in a low voice: “Say nothing about 
him. Turn on.” 

In the course of the evening Darrell asked Corinne 
to favor them with some music. When he had heard 
Corinne play he understood Maude’s statement that 
what she knew about music she had learned from 
Corinne. When later the two cousins sang together, 
Corinne sang the soprano and Maude the alto parts. 
Darrell was too much in love to feel jealous of any- 
one’s playing or singing, but he had to acknowledge 
to himself that what Maude had told him of Corinne’s 
ability as a musician was true. 

As Darrell and Maude walked slowly toward her 
home, after having taken leave of the Eoberts family, 
his thoughts reverted to the picture he had seen in 
the album. Suddenly he stopped, faced around 
toward Maude and grasped her arm. “What’s the 
matter?” asked Maude. “Did you forget something 
at Uncle’s?” 

“That picture,” said Darrell, “that you said was of 
an editor — Horton. Did you say he’s dead?” 

“Yes,” replied Maude. “At least everybody but 
Corinne thinks he’s dead. Why?” 


238 


THE LAEGEE .FAITH 


‘^Tell me all you know about him/’ said Darrell, 
disregarding her question. “How is it some people 
think he’s dead and Corinne thinks otherwise?” 

“It’s rather a long story,” said Maude, “and a sad 
one for all of us. This Mr. Horton and Corinne were 
engaged to be married. Their wedding day was set 
nearly seven years ago — it will be seven years in May. 
I was a little girl then. You’ve heard me speak of my 
brother Tom that was drowned?” 

• “Yes,” replied Darrell. 

“It was then,” said Maude; “just a few days before 
Corinne was to be married she went out on the lake 
fishing with Tom one afternoon. Tom was a good 
boatman, but he didn’t get the boat that day that he 
had been used to. J ust when they were going to start 
home Corinne caught a very big fish. They got it in 
the boat, but it flopped out, and Tom, in grabbing at 
it, upset the boat. They could both swim, but Tom 
was drowned — he had on a pair of rubber boots. 
Corinne got hold of an oar or something and kept 
afloat a little while. Then a steamer picked her up. 
It was just starting from here to Cheboygan, Mich., 
and the captain wouldn’t turn back. The body of 
brother Tom was washed ashore a day or two later. 
They wouldn’t let me see him.” And, overcome by 
the emotion which the recital of the story awakened, 
Maude began using her handkerchief and crying 
quietly. 


^ DISCOVERY 


239 


said Darrell, gently, after waiting a lit- 
tle time. 

‘^‘They found the boat they’d been in turned upside 
down,” continued Maude. ^‘It was nearly a week be- 
fore they heard from Corinne. She came home after- 
ward on the cars.” 

‘‘But about Horton,” said Darrell. “What became 
of him?” 

“He walked along the lake shore for two or three 
days,” said Maude, “till after Tom’s body came in. 
Then he went to Aunt Mary, kissed her good-by, and 
nobody has seen him since. They all think he 
drowned himself — all but Corinne.” 

“And what does Corinne think?” asked Darrell. 

“Oh, Corinne feels just as sure that he’ll come back 
as that she’s alive,” answered Maude. “It makes me 
feel a little creepy sometimes to hear her talk of 
Frank. Of course she’s perfectly sane — on every 
other -subject, anyway — but everybody else knows 
that Frank Horton is dead, for they tried every way 
to find him. One man, a railroad conductor, was sure 
he had gone to Cincinnati, but he said Mr. Horton 
rode on a pass, and he had nothing to go on, only that 
he had noted that pass number on that day. But there 
were lots of people in Cincinnati that Mr. Horton 
knew and that knew him, and none of them had seen 
him.” 


240 


THE LARGER FAITH 


“What is there about Corinne’s talk that makes you 
feel creepy?’^ asked Darrell. 

“Oh, lots of things,” replied Maude. “She said to 
me once: ‘Frank was in trouble for a long time after 
he went away, but he’s not in trouble any more.’ I 
thought to myself. No, because he’s dead, but I asked 
Corinne what made her think such things, and she 
said: ‘I don’t think them; I know them.’ I asked 
her how she knew them, and she said: ‘I know them 
because I love him.’ Not long ago she sang the old 
Scotch song, ‘We’d Better Bide a Wee,’ and when 
she had finished it remarked that Frank always liked 
that song and she wanted to keep in practice till he 
returned. Poor Corinne! Fm sorry for her.” 

“But if she is so cheerful about it, why did you tell 
me to say nothing of this Mr. Horton this evening?” 
asked Darrell. 

“Because Corinne always speaks of him as some 
one who is absent just for the time being, and it 
makes Uncle Doctor and Aunt Mary and all of us 
feel creepy,” replied Maude. 

They had resumed their walk as they talked. After 
a pause Darrell asked: “Maude, can you keep a se- 
cret?” 

“Of course I can,” answered Maude, indignantly. 
“What about?” 

“Well,” replied Darrell, “I hardly know just what 
to do yet, but Corinne is right. I’ve seen Horton — or 


X DISCOVERT 


U1 

his twin brother. I don’t see how I could have failed 
to recognize the picture at once. I guess it was your 
statement that he was dead that threw me off.” 

‘‘Where have you seen him, and when?” demanded 
Maude, in her turn stopping and facing toward Dar- 
rell. 

“That’s the picture of William Young, the ranch- 
man in New Mexico,” replied Darrell. “Only when 
I saw him he didn’t wear a full beard.” 

“Do you really think so, John?” inquired Maude. 

“I can’t be mistaken,” said Darrell. “I ought to 
know that face and head anywhere.” 

“Oh, let’s go and tell Corinne!” exclaimed Maude. 

“No, I don’t believe we’d better do that just now,” 
replied Darrell. “I think we ought to talk it over 
first.” 

So they held a long family consultation. It was 
the first time they had consulted each other on any 
matter of policy or of future conduct, and each one 
was highly pleased at the discernment and good judg^ 
ment shown by the other. It was finally decided that 
before saying anything to others Darrell should see 
Young — or Horton — and then decide on a course of 
action. 

When Darrell arrived at the office a day or two 
later he applied for a two weeks’ leave of absence to go 
to New Mexico. In answer to a searching look of in- 
quiry he said: “I have no investment there and no 


242 


THE LARGER FAITH 


intention of making any. This is — a family mat- 
ter.’’ 

^^All right, Darrell,” said the senior member of the 
firm, to whom the application had been made. We’ll 
try to spare you that long. When do you want to go ?” 

‘^As soon as I can,” answered Darrell. 

‘^Well, start whenever you’re ready,” was the re- 

ply- 

The first thing Darrell did was to send a telegram 
to William Young, Tres Piedras, New Mexico, stat- 
ing when he would arrive there. Then he made 
hasty preparations and took the next train for the 
west. 

All the way out he puzzled over the question how 
to approach Young. If Young was Frank Horton, he 
must have known Maude Briggs when she was much 
younger than now, but he would probably deny it. 
Still, why had he promised to come to their wedding? 
What if he should prove to be the wrong man? In 
that case Darrell felt that his trip was not only use- 
less, but that he was making a fool of himself. He 
had seen the picture but once, and then but for a few 
moments. The nearer he got to New Mexico the 
greater became his doubts as to either the usefulness 
or the propriety of his errand. He resolved finally to 
make some excuse for his sudden visit and let mat- 
ters take their course. 

Arrived at Tres Piedras, he found Ned Long await- 


A DISCOVEBY 


343 


ing him with a dogcart. Mr. Young, Ned explained, 
had to be away on other business that day or he would 
have come himself. 

All Darrell knew of Ned was that Young had taken 
some boy or young man to live with him. On the way 
out he tried by questioning the young man and at the 
same time appearing to be indifferent, to learn some- 
thing of Young’s history, but Ned, while not at all 
averse to talking about Young, knew nothing of him 
save what he was, and it is needless to say his opinion 
on that point was favorable. 

‘‘^Does Mr. Young correspond with many people?” 
asked Darrell with an inward blush at thus prying 
into the private affairs of his friend. 

“No, I guess not very many,” replied Ned. “I 
never carried any letters for him but those addressed 
to you and Mr. Winter, that stayed with us awhile last 
year.” 

They rode on in silence till a turn in the road 
brought the house in sight. 

“Ah!” said Darrell, taking a long breath, “there’s 
Young’s ranch!” 


CHAPTER XXIL 


UNITED. 

Young was not at home when Darrell and Ned got 
to the ranch, but he arrived not long afterward, and 
met Darrell with the same quiet cordiality which he 
had shown when they parted and in his subsequent 
letters. 

While Young was getting dinner Darrell sat in the 
kitchen and they talked. Darrell related some of his 
experiences since they parted. 

All the time, though, he was watching Young with 
the same curiosity he had felt when they first met, 
only his curiosity was now greatly intensified. How 
should he approach the subject of this man being 
Frank Horton? How should he apologize or get out 
of it if Young proved not to be Frank Horton? Dar^ 
rell would not for any consideration offend Young, 
whoever he might be. 

This part of the matter, however, was settled more 
suddenly than Darrell had anticipated. Dinner over 
and the work being done. Young and Darrell re- 
turned to the sitting room, where they lighted cigars 


UNITED 


245 


which Darrell provided. When they had smoked a 
little time Young extended his congratulations to 
Darrell on the latter’s approaching marriage and said, 
quietly: ‘‘I knew Maude Briggs when she was a lit- 
tle girl.” 

‘Then/’ blurted out Darrell, “you’re Frank Hor- 
ton!” 

“Yes,” replied Young, naively, “I’m Frank Hor. 
ton.” 

The very composure with which Young — or Hor- 
ton — said this threw Darrell entirely off his balance. 
He had been wondering how to establish the identity 
of William Young and Frank Horton, but now that 
this was done he saw that he had accomplished the 
smallest part of his errand. He didn’t want to shock 
this man. Truth to tell, he was a little afraid to do 
so. Underneath that calm exterior Darrell felt that 
there was a slumbering volcano of passion, and that a 
sudden shock to him would be like touching off a 
quantity of blasting powder. 

With these feelings and in his rattled condition Dar- 
rell adopted about as awkward a course as could have 
been devised by a man of his experience and knowl- 
edge of men, though it is true this particular kind of 
negotiation was new to him. With a vague idea of 
leading up to the point gradually, he began somewhat 
abruptly and without any apparent relevancy to relate 
instances of cases where people had been supposed to 


246 


THE LARGER FAITH 


be dead but turned out not to be. He related a case 
he had read about of a man being legally hanged and 
afterward revived. Then he told of an instance where 
a woman, after being in her coffin for two days, and 
just when they were about to bury her, was discov- 
ered to be alive and lived for years afterward. Next 
he related the story of a man who had been in bath- 
ing at the seashore, and had gone down and stayed 
in the water for more than an hour and had been 
taken out without a sign of life, but after several 
hours’ work with him had revived and lived. 

From the time of stating that he was Frank Hor- 
ton, Young had not uttered a word, but had sat there 
intently watching his companion. As he talked on 
Darrell was getting more and more nervous, and he 
showed it. Finally he told of a case where some per- 
son had been supposed to be drowned, but had got 
hold of a plank or something, been picked up and re- 
appeared among his friends after having been sup- 
posed to be dead for months. At the close of this 
story Darrell said, in a rather weak voice: ‘‘You’ve 
heard of such cases, Mr. — ^Horton?” 

For answer Horton, over whose face had spread a 
deathly pallor, strode across the room, grasped Dar- 
rell’s arms with a grip which made the latter wince 
and which he afterward averred left marks on his 
arms for weeks, and said: 

“Is Corinne Eoberts living?” 


UNITED 


247 


^^Yes,” answered Darrell, weakly. 

‘‘And at E ?” asked Horton. 

“Yes,” said Darrell. 

“Tell me what you know, man, quick!” commanded 
Horton. 

“You^re crushing my arms!” exclaimed Darrell. 

“Pardon me. I didn’t know I was touching you,” 
said Horton, releasing his hold and dropping into a 
chair. “How go on.” 

“I saw Miss Eoberts ” Darrell began. 

“When?” broke in Horton. 

“Within a week,” said Darrell. 

“Is she well? How does she look? Are her parents 
living and well? They must think me ” 

“They’re all well,” said Darrell, “and all of them 
but Miss Eoberts think you’re dead. If she ever 
looked better than she does now ” 

“You say she doesn’t think I’m dead?” interrupted 
Horton. 

“All I know about it is what Maude tells me,” re- 
plied Darrell, and he related the conversation between 
himself and Maude. 

Horton was deeply touched when told that Corinne 
was always expecting him, though her parents and all 
her friends believed him dead. 

“All of them,” said Darrell, “even Maude, thought 
Corinne was queer in that respect.” 

“The intuition of love is often superior to what 


248 


THE LARGER FAITH 


we call judgment,” said Horton, as if he were com- 
muning with his own thoughts rather than replying 
to Darrell. 

Then for an hour followed what Darrell asserted 
was the most searching examination he had ever un- 
dergone. Every scrap of information he had con- 
cerning Corinne, her parents and every person and 
everything either closely or remotely related to her 
and her life was elicited. 

Finally, after a lull in the conversation, Horton 
went to his desk, saying: 

‘T thought at first I’d send a telegram, hut that 
wouldn’t be fair — to her. I’ll write.” 

^Tll look around and see if you’ve been taking 
proper care of things since I left,” said Darrell, start- 
ing to leave the room. hope, though,” he added, 
as he paused at the door, ruefully rubbing his biceps, 
‘That the next time you find it necessary to grab 
somebody I’ll not be within reach. You have a grip 
like a blacksmith.” 

In a little while Horton left the house with a letter 
in his hand. 

“Yed,” he called to the young man, who was at a 
little distance, ‘T want to get to the station in time to 
catch the mail going north. May I ride Whitefoot?” 
His gray was out in pasture. 

“Why, of course, Mr. Young,” answered Ned. 
“But why can’t I take the letter?” 


UNITED 


249 


“Thank you; I want to go myself,” said Horton. 

In a few minutes he was on his way to the station 
at a pace that made Ned uneasy. 

“I hope Mr. Young hasn’t got any bad news?” he 
said, looking inquiringly at Darrell. 

“No, I don’t think he would call it bad news,” said 
Darrell. “It may take him away from the ranch, 
though.” 

“That so?” said Ned, anxiously. 

“I really don’t know what his plans are,” said Dar- 
rell. “I doubt if he knows himself.” 

“Well, you can just count he comes pretty near 
knowing,” said Ned, feeling that Darrell’s last re- 
mark denoted indecision of character on the part of 
his guardian. 

“I mean till he gets an answer to his letter,” said 
Darrell. “The fact is, I’ve brought him word that a 
friend of his that he supposed to be dead is still liv- 
ing.” 

“That’s curious,” said Ned. “How did Mr. Young 
come to think he was dead if he’s alive?” 

“She’s a woman,” said Darrell. “She was thought 
to be drowned, but was picked up by an outgoing 
steamer, and her friends didn’t hear from her for 
some time.” 

“Oh!” said Ned, and for the first time in his life 
he felt a pang of jealousy — and that toward a woman. 

This is the letter Horton sent: 


250 


THE LARGER FAITH 


Dearest Coeinne (if I may still call you so) : 

^‘When a little while ago 1 learned from Mr. Darrell 
that you are still living, my first intention was to send 
you a telegram. But there are some things about 
myself which you have a right to know before answer- 
ing, and which I could not tell you by telegraph. 

‘^For nearly two years after I left E , supposing 

you to be dead, I was a tramp, and a drunken tramp. 
In all that time I hardly drew a sober breath. Then 
I was convicted of murder and sent to the Colorado 
penitentiary under a life sentence. I had not com- 
mitted the crime for which I was sentenced, however, 
and after serving something over six months of my 
sentence the governor of the state pardoned me on 
the ground of innocence. 

‘T was at all times true to your memory, save that 
in the respect mentioned I was untrue to myself; and 
I would have continued true while life lasted had you 
been dead. Having known and loved you, I could 
love no other woman. 

^‘1 cannot bring to you the simple purity of life that 
is worthy of you, and yet — I love you. You were — 
you will ever be — a part of my life. The thought of 
your goodness and of my hiding from you — from 
myself — all these years so overwhelms me that it is 
difficult for me to compel myself to write calmly. 

‘‘May I ask you to send me a message by wire as 
soon as you get this, addressing me as William Young, 
Tres Piedras, New Mexico? 

“And now, if you can forgive the great wrong I did 
to both you and myself when I thought you dead, and 
receive me again into favor, you will make me once 


UNITED 


251 


more the happiest of men; hut whether you do or not, 
I shall always bless you and always love you. Yours, 

‘‘Frank Horton.” 

Darrell was in bed when Horton returned from the 
station after mailing his letter. The next day their 
conversation reverted to the people in Ohio in whom 
they were both so greatly interested. 

‘T hope you’ll be able to go back with me,” said 
Darrell. 

‘Til know within a week,” replied Horton. 

“Perhaps,” said Darrell, anxious to aid his friend, 
“there’s something I could explain when I go back?” 

“No,” said Horton, decidedly, “nobody but myself 
will ever explain anything for me to Corinne Eoherts. 
Besides,” he added, “I’ve already written all there is 
to say and more than you know about me. You didn’t 
know, for instance, that I am an ex-convict?” 

“No, and I don’t believe it,” replied Darrell. 

“It’s true, nevertheless,” said Horton. “I was sen- 
tenced to the Colorado penitentiary for life, and 
served part of the time.” 

“But ” said Darrell, hesitatingly. 

“No,” said Horton, smiling, “I wasn’t guilty. The 
governor pardoned me on that ground.” 

Darrell, at a loss for something to say, remarked: 
“It was unfortunate that you got convicted.” 

“I don’t know that it was,” replied Horton. “I 


252 


THE LARGER FAITH 


doubt whether Fd have been alive to-day but for my 
conviction, for I was nearly dead with drinking 
whisky when I was arrested.” 

‘‘I didn’t suppose you ever drank a drop,” said 
Darrell. 

don’t,” replied Horton, ‘^but for nearly two 
years I drank very hard.” 

Darrell felt that now he was beginning to know 
something of this man. Although the errand he had 
started out on was fully performed, he stayed, anxious 
to know what Corinne’s answer would be and what 
would be Horton’s next move. As for Horton, he 
went about with a feverish intensity during the three 
days following the sending of his letter, inspecting his 
stock and everything about the ranch, occasionally 
giving Ned a suggestion as to the care of some animal 
or what would best be done at sheep-shearing time. 

On the fourth day he went to the station. Ned 
Long’s anxiety had been increasing since his talk 
with Darrell. He had never seen Horton so pre- 
occupied and uncommunicative. Ned felt that he had 
a grievance against that woman, whoever she was, for 
not staying drowned. Still if Horton — or, as Ned 
knew him. Young — cared for her, Ned would have 
defended her with his life. His worst fears were real- 
ized when Horton rode home that day and in his 
presence handed Darrell a telegram, saying: 

^‘I’ll go back with you — if you start soon enough.” 


UNITED 


238 


Then to Ned he added: ‘T leave on the next train, 
Ned, to he absent some time/^ 

This was the telegram Darrell read: 

^^WiLLiAM Young, Tres Piedras, New Mexico: 

‘There is no past. The present and the future are 
enough. Nothing to forgive. I have expected you 
always. Come. Corinne.’’ 

“Ned,^’ said Horton, ‘Til leave you some money. 
If you need more and don’t hear from me, sell some- 
thing. Treat everything as your own till I return. 
The work will all fall on you now, but you’ll get 
along. By the way, my name is Frank Horton. I’ll 
write to you. Take care of yourself.” 

Ned was too well accustomed to Horton’s ways to 
ask any questions, but his eyes filled with tears. 

“Don’t let yourself feel lonely or forsaken,” said 
Horton, laying his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “What- 
ever occurs, you will always fill a warm place in my 
heart, my boy.” 

Horton’s clothes were very plain. He decided to 

travel to C , where Darrell lived, stop off there 

long enough to get an outfit of clothes, and then pro- 
ceed to E to meet Corinne. 

As they traveled eastward Darrell brought up the 
subject of their correspondence, and in the course of 
their talks said: “I go .pretty regularly to hear Mr. 


254 


THE LARGER FAITH 


Winter preach. Yon know he’s an independent 
preacher now 

‘‘Yes/’ said Horton, “he wrote me that he was 
preaching in an independent church, or rather in an 
independent theater. How is he coming on?” 

“Splendidly,” replied Darrell. “He has the biggest 
audiences of any minister in the city, and I think the 
most intelligent audiences. One thing is sure, his 
sermons are full of practical religion and he’s doing 
a vast amount of good. By the way, he thinks you 
are a great man and a great teacher.” 

“We became very good friends while he was at the 
ranch,” said Horton. 

“Yes, but aside from friendship he told me he be- 
lieved he had learned more in the five months he was 
there than in his whole life before,” said Darrell, and 
he added: “I could understand him, for I learned 
more from you than I ever knew before.” 

“Well,” replied Horton, smiling, “I may decide to 
open a kindergarten for youths of twenty-five to 
fifty.” 

“You’ll have pupils if you do,” said Darrell, seri- 
ously. 

As their train pulled out of a station one day it ran 
slowly past a freight train in which some tramps were 
seen. Darrell made some remark about them. 

“There isn’t near so much difference between those 


UNITED 


256 


people and the ones who ride in palace cars as we 
sometimes imagine/^ said Horton. 

‘‘Still, a gulf separates them,” replied Darrell. 

“It’s a gulf that may be quickly crossed, either 
way,” returned Horton. 

Arrived at C , Horton visited a barber shop, 

then spent two hours shopping. When Darrell ac- 
companied him to the train Horton seemed an easy 
man about town. Except for the tan on his face he 
would have passed for a resident of the city. His 
clothes were ready made, but they fitted him well and 
were in quiet colors. Besides, as Darrell acknowl- 
edged to himself, somehow nobody was likely to look 
much at Horton’s clothes. 

The meeting between Frank Horton and Corinne 
Eoberts was too sacred for us to intrude upon. Suf- 
fice it to say there was on both sides absolute frank- 
ness, entire confidence, unbounded faith, and that 
perfect love which comes to a man and woman but 
once in a lifetime. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 


THE BANCHMAN. 

One Sunday at the close of his sermon Mr. Winter 
said to his congregation: have an announcement 

which it gives me pleasure to make. Frank Horton, 
the friend whom you have heard me mention and 
whom I met at his ranch in New Mexico, is now in 
the east, and I have invited him to speak to us from 
this platform on the first Sunday convenient for him. 
He answers that he will do so next Sunday, provided 
I make it plain to you that I am not responsible for 
anything he may say. I make this statement at his 
request, for I am not at all afraid of his saying any- 
thing that will hurt any of us to hear.^^ 

It became noised about that a ranchman from Xew 
Mexico was to fill Mr. Winter’s pulpit the next Sun- 
day, and one of the local papers mentioned the fact. 
The auditorium was filled, and the people were some- 
what surprised at the appearance of the ranchman 
when he stepped forward on the platform. There was 
nothing clerical about his appearance; neither was 
there anything suggestive of ranch life. He was so 


THE RANCHMAN 


257 


well dressed that nobody could have told afterward 
w^hat kind of clothes he wore. Without announcing 
any text, and ^rithout any exordium, he began talk- 
ing to them in a conversational tone, which, however, 
could be heard throughout the house. He said: 

^‘There is a prevalent idea that religion is some- 
thing apart from every-day life; that man’s spiritual 
welfare is one thing, his temporal welfare another. 
I do not believe this to be true. Man has hut one real 
nature, his spiritual nature. There is hut one kind 
of welfare, and that is spiritual welfare. All else is 
hut seeming; hut the appearance which we sometimes 
take for the fact. Every human being is the child of 
God, and has in him the spirit of God. To our phys- 
ical or even to our mental perceptions this spirit may 
seem to he dormant, or dead, or entirely lacking. It 
is there just the same. 

^Tor the spirit of God in man is the very life prin- 
ciple — it is the conscious I am in every human being. 
It is the soul. Without it man would instantly cease 
to he man. 

^‘Religion, I take it, is nothing more than the de- 
velopment of this spirit, which brings man into a con- 
sciousness of his relationship to God, and hence to all 
life. Religion in this sense is common to all men, in- 
herent in all men. It is a necessary and a natural 
part of every man’s being. 

^The notion that science and religion conflict one 


268 


THE LARGER FAITH 


with the other is wholly a mistake. No fact which 
has ever been established or which ever may be estab- 
lished by science in anywise conflicts or can conflict 
with religion. Truth cannot conflict with truth. 

‘‘The experiment of trying to separate man’s phys- 
ical from his spiritual nature — of trying to secure his 
temporal welfare without taking into consideration 
his spiritual welfare — has been tried over and over 
again. It has always failed. It always will fail. Be- 
cause every such attempt is in direct contravention ol 
a law of nature — that is to say, of the law of man’s 
nature by which he was created a spiritual being. 

“Man seeks happiness because there is inborn in 
every man a recognition of the fact that he has a right 
to happiness. We seek to gratify the senses, and it is 
right that we should do so. Some odors, sounds, 
sights, are pleasing to us; others displease us. Some 
kinds of food and drink are pleasant and healthful; 
others are distasteful and hurtful. Some things are 
pleasant, others are painful to the touch. It is per- 
fectly proper that in all these matters the senses 
should be gratified, but it is an error to suppose that 
happiness is to be found in the gratification of the 
senses. 

“And herein lies what I look upon as the funda- 
mental error of mankind. It is constantly sought by 
some change in external physical conditions to secure 
man’s happiness. One proposes a change of political 


THE RANCHMAN 


259 


conditions, another has economic theories which he 
guarantees to produce human happiness if adopted. 
They are merely scratching at the surface. All these 
things are effects, not causes — or, if you please, ef- 
fects which, in turn, become causes. You may change 
a man’s every external condition and leave him still 
unhappy. ^If every one were housed in a palace, dis- 
satisfaction, rivalry and restlessness would still be the 
rule.’ This would not be true if man were only an in- 
telligent animal — he could then be made happy, as 
the brutes are, by a change in external conditions. 

“But man’s happiness or unhappiness is not to be 
found in external conditions, but within himself. 
Heaven and hell are not locations, but conditions. 
And they are conditions which are ever present with 
us. We create our own heaven or hell, and we live in 
the one or the other day by day. He who is hoping 
for happiness only after death will not achieve happi- 
ness, for there is no death. 

“True, proper external conditions are necessary to 
the welfare of our physical being, and, therefore, es- 
sential to our happiness. But is there a single wrong 
condition which is chargeable to Nature? Is there 
one which man has not brought on himself? 

“There is an ample supply of sunshine, of pure air, 
of pure water, for all mankind, for all life. Yet thou- 
sands of human beings are to-day lacking these es- 
sentials to physical health. Why? Not because God 


260 


THE LARGER FAITH 


— or Nature — has made any mistake or has been at all 
stinted in these gifts, but because of man’s own error 
in not availing himself of what is provided in such 
ample abundance. 

“In like manner God has provided an ample 
amount of health, happiness and prosperity for all 
mankind. Why, then, are not all men happy, healthy 
and prosperous? Again, it is not because God has 
failed or Nature has failed to make ample provision, 
but because man is depriving himself of these things 
which are at hand and within his reach. Why does 
man do this? Only through ignorance — through a 
failure to take into consideration his real nature, the 
fundamental law of his being. 

“One may live in the upper part of his house and 
get the benefit of air and sunshine, or he may shut 
himself in the cellar and deprive himself of both pure 
air and sunshine. 

“We’ve been living too long in the cellar. There 
are evidences on every hand that the plan is not a 
success. Is it not time to try the other plan? 

“Do not misunderstand me as meaning that there is 
no necessity for the study of economic and social 
questions, or that political action is useless. My belief 
is exactly the reverse of such a view. There is no 
practicable way of bringing about changes in exist- 
ing conditions, of correcting present errors and 


THE EA.NCHMAN 


261 


wrongs, save political action on the part of the peo- 
ple. 

‘Tor we, the people, organized as society, are caus- 
ing ourselves all the unhappiness we suffer. The 
Creator, as I said before, has provided amply for all 
the wants of all mankind. But mankind, because of 
custom, precedent and conventionality, are simply 
robbing themselves, or permitting themselves to be 
robbed when they could prevent it, w'hich amounts to 
the same thing. 

‘Tt would attract attention and cause exclamations 
of surprise if it were known that a family of a dozen 
persons in this community permitted one of their 
number, no larger or stronger than the others, to col- 
lect in a comer and keep from the others most of the 
food and clothing provided for the entire family, 
there to decay for lack of use while the other eleven 
persons in the family went hungry and ill clad. Can 
any of you tell me the difference between the actions 
of that family and what society is doing? 

“ ‘Man’s Inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn.* 

“Also man’s own ignorance and indifference are 
causing him to mourn. 

“The remedy lies in our own hands. The practical 
method of applying it is by political action. By all 
means express your views in the conduct of the gov- 


262 


THE LARGER FAITH 


eminent, national, state and local. There is as much 
religion in going to the polls and voting as there is 
in going to church and singing hymns — often more. 

“Only in voting, as in all other actions, keep in 
mind the fundamental truth that all human beings 
are members of one family having a common parent; 
that all men are, therefore, your brothers, and that 
your highest duty is to do what you can for the good 
of the family. 

“If we vote in this spirit, using such means as we 
have of knowing what is best for the family, we shall 
be voting right. Possibly we may vote opposite tick- 
ets, but still each one will be doing the right thing, 
and it is likely that later we shall be voting together. 

“Besides, we may each bear in mind that our own 
particular way of getting at a result may not be the 
best way. 

“You can reach San Francisco by traveling west- 
ward — that is the shortest route. But if you travel in 
exactly the opposite direction, and keep going, you 
will arrive at the same destination. 

“William Lloyd Garrison, Wendell Phillips and 
John Brown did something toward ending human 
slavery in America. But John C. Calhoun, Robert 
Toombs and Jefferson Davis were also influential in 
bringing about the same result. 

“Some unthinking persons deprecate the mention 
of politics in the pulpit. For my part, I believe there 


THE RANCHMAN 


263 


is no subject which concerns human happiness which 
is unfit for the pulpit. When you erect a church, as I 
understand you intend doing, I trust you will make 
your pulpit a forum from which may be discussed any 
and every subject which affects the daily life of men 
and women. 

‘‘For what we need to learn is how best to live and 
to make this world a better place to live in. 

heard of a church dignitary saying of the mem- 
bers of his denomination: ‘Our people die well!’ It 
would have been much more to the purpose had he 
been able to say: ‘Our people live well.’ 

“Living well is something more than merely acting 
in a proper manner. It means teing right. If we he 
right, our acting will be right. If we get the in- 
ternal man right, the external, which is manifested in 
action, may safely be allowed to take care of itself. 

“People who live with the sole object of dying well 
and attaining happiness beyond the grave are likely 
to learn some day that they mistook the purpose of 
life. 

“My own opinion is that what we call death is 
probably much less of a change in the existence of 
the individual than is generally supposed. 

“A fountain, a beacon, by whomsoever first estab- 
lished, becomes the common benefaction of all pass- 
ers-by. So truth, by whomsoever first formulated or 


264 


THE LARGER FAITH 


uttered, is the common inheritance of all who come 
into a knowledge of it. 

‘Truth is eternal. Spiritual truths are ever-exist- 
ent facts, cognizable only by spiritual perception. 
Jesus formulated and gave utterance to many spirit- 
ual truths. By his life — that is to say, the three 
years of his life of which we have some account — 
and by his death, he vitalized and energized many 
others. But he never manufactured a single spirit- 
ual fact. He did not change in the slightest degree 
the spiritual law of man’s nature, or the law of man’s 
spiritual nature. 

“Nothing is true to you unless your spiritual and 
mental perceptions enable you to judge it and accept 
it as truth. To illustrate: Suppose I hand you a 
hook printed in a language with which you are un- 
acquainted. I ask you ‘Is it true?’ You can only 
answer that you do not know. There is no truth 
in it for you. 

“Nothing that Jesus uttered is true simply because 
he said it; for every truth uttered by him was an ex- 
istent truth before he gave utterance to it. 

“On the other hand, nothing lacks the quality of 
truth simply because the author is unknown. Truth 
is where you find it. Truth for you exists only 
where your perception enables you to recognize it as 
truth. 

“In the matter of authoritativeness there is no 


THE RANCHMAN 


265 


distinction between the sayings of Jesus and the say- 
ings of the undistinguishahle John Jones of the pres- 
ent day. Either may he true to you; either, to you, 
may lack the essential element of all truth. 

‘^But you ask me: ^Do you not then believe in 
Jesus Christ?’ I believe, profoundly, in the teach- 
ings, and in the personality, of Jesus. He was the 
one great man, not only of his age, but I think of 
every age. He recognized, more clearly than any 
other of his time, man’s true relationship to God. 
In a time when man seemed given over to the false 
notion that heaven is a far-off place to be attained 
only after death, Jesus perceived and was able to say 
from personal experience that Hhe kingdom of 
heaven is within you.’ He founded a religion or 
form of religion which I look upon as the ultimate 
wdsdom of man. For the Christian religion, so called, 
is in its essential truths the final religion of mankind. 
It is so broad, so all-embracing, that it seems to me 
to cover all that man can desire and all that he can 
need. It is the religion of mankind — that is to say, 
it is religion. For all religion is one, whether pro- 
mulgated by Jesus, by Mohammed, by Confucius, 
or by — John Jones. We talk of this religion and 
that religion; of this denomination and that denom- 
ination. Idle words! All are seeking to know God. 
All are seeking to know man’s relationship to God. 
And all are succeeding. Man is coming into the 


266 


THE LARGER FAITH 


light, and this much more rapidly, I think, than is 
generally recognized. 

“The acceptance of the truth, the coming into the 
knowledge of our true relationship to God, is not a 
matter of groanings or anguish of spirit. It is simply 
letting the light of God’s truth shine, permitting the 
warmth of God’s love to permeate us and find expres- 
sion in us. 

“Every person will find this light and this love 
within himself, and sooner or later will give expres- 
sion to them. 

“ ^Coming to God’ is a misleading expression. None 
of us was ever for a moment away from God. As 
well might the smallest thing that lives in the ocean 
attempt to quarrel with or escape from its element as 
for man to try to escape from God. 

“All deviations from the laws of nature carry with 
them their own penalties; and these penalties are 
kindly warnings. Fire and water are useful and 
kindly elements, so long as the body sustains the 
proper relation to them. Let this proper relation be 
disturbed, as by casting the body into these elements, 
and they become hurtful, destructive. 

“If man’s body were incapable of feeling pain, it 
would soon destroy itself and the race would cease 
to exist. 

“Man’s spiritual nature demands recognition and 
satisfaction with even greater insistence than does 


THE KANCHMAN 


267 


the body. Every infraction of the law of man’s 
spiritual nature carries with it the resulting penalty 
of unhappiness. 

“Delays in this matter are not dangerous; but de^ 
lays may be painful. 

“No human soul will be lost; for every soul is a 
part of God. 

“The coarse materialism of the present day which 
regards as realities only those forms of matter 
w'hich can be recognized by the physical senses, seems 
to me to be radically and wholly at variance with the 
truth. The only reality is the soul. All these forms 
of matter are but shadows, the outward manifesta- 
tions or expressions of thought. 

“The hope of humanity lies in the diffusion of 
light. A brighter day is dawning; to many it is al- 
ready here. The world is coming to adopt as a rule 
of every-day conduct the idealism of Jesus. 

“But it is objected that this would stop human 
progress. What is progress? Much to which we 
give that name is really decadence. The adoption of 
this plan of life would not stop invention. It would 
not stop the necessary work of the world; for to one 
who is at peace work is a pleasure and not a task. 
The work of the world ought to be done and will be 
done not in subversion of the spiritual life, but in 
aid and development of it. 

“The adoption of this doctrine would not stop oy 


268 


THE LARGER FAITH 


delay anything that is true progress. It might, and 
I think it will, change some phases of existing con- 
ditions. 

admit that in the economic system of Jesus 
there is no place for either the millionaire or the 
tramp. Neither one is useful. Both could be 
abolished to the advantage of the human race. We 
are apt sometimes to become impatient. We view 
things from a narrow standpoint, having constantl}' 
in mind the short space of time during which the 
human body exists in its present form. But the soul 
is infinite, eternal; and as infinity recognizes not 
space, nor eternity time, so the soul knows no here 
or there, no yesterday, to-day or to-morrow. 

“There is one with whom a thousand years are as 
a day, and a day is as a thousand years. 

“I am an optimist. I have entire confidence in the 
coming of a better time, the dawning of a brighter 
day for mankind. I am equally sure that this will 
be brought about only by the diffusion of light 
among mankind and the recognition of man’s real 
nature. This seems to me to be the first and most 
essential element to man’s welfare and happiness. 
This element omitted, all changes in the laws will 
prove ineffectual; this truth overlooked, all attempted 
reforms will end in merely shifting burdens to other 
shoulders. 

“Men will not cease to do injustice because a stat- 


THE KANCHMAN 


269 


ute commands it; they will not recognize each other 
as brothers because the law says they shall. 

‘^All force is silent. Love, which is the essence of 
all true religion, is the dominant power of the world 
to-day. Love is the sun, gentle, all-pervading, all- 
powerful, whose tendency is always to lift up, to 
purify and to attract. The power of love is the 
power of God. 

“The eternal fatherhood of God and the universal 
brotherhood of man is not a Utopian dream, but an 
existent fact the full fruition of which is becoming 
the dream of nations; and ^the dreams that nations 
dream come true.’ 

“Never since the Christian era has there been such 
a spiritual awakening as in these last days of the nine- 
teenth century. Never has there been a time when 
the demand for spiritual food and light was so great 
as it is to-day. The world is progressing in this 
direction with as great rapidity as in the arts and 
sciences, in inventions and machinery. The time is 
coming, and coming fast, 

“ 'That man to man the warld o’er 
Shall brothers be for a’ that.’ 

“Belief is not a matter of volition. We believe 
when the evidence convinces us; we disbelieve when 
we are not convinced. ‘We do not take possession 
of our ideas but are possessed by them.’ No human 


270 


THE LARGER FAITH 


being is under obligation to believe, or to disbelieve, 
anything. 

“Spiritual truth, to him who perceives it, is 
thereafter as real as any fact in his existence. What 
I have said to you is true, to me. It can only be true 
to each of you in so far as it is mirrored as truth in 
your own consciousness.” 

When Horton ceased speaking a hymn was an- 
nounced, after the singing of which Horton, at a sign 
from Mr. Winter, advanced to the front of the plat- 
form, raised his hand, and looking out over the con- 
gregation pronounced this benediction: 

• “The love of God is with you, always!” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


OLD FRIENDS MEET. 

Frank Horton called at the Gazette office the day 

after his arrival at E . He found that the paper 

had prospered fairly during his absence, and there 
was a neat sum in bank to his credit representing the 
dividends on his stock. A few weeks later, or at the 
expiration of seven years from the date of his dis- 
appearance, an application was to have been made to 
the Probate court for the appointment of an admin- 
istrator of his estate. 

The next issue of the paper contained this notice 
at the head of the editorial columns: 

^^Mr. Frank Horton, former editor, has returned 
and will shortly assume editorial management of the 
Gazette.’’ 

With Corinne and her parents Horton was entirely 

frank concerning his life after leaving E . He 

told them of being sent to the penitentiary, but 
seemed averse to talking about the mistake under 
which he was sent there, saying, when asked about 
the particulars, that it was a subject he preferred not 


272 


THE LARGER FAITH 


to dwell upon; and his feelings in this matter were 
respected. 

The Gazette became again a one-man paper when 
Horton resumed editorial control of it. Every part 
of the paper reflected the personality of the man who 
conducted it. Its character was broader and more 
liberal, its tone somewhat more charitable, than in 
former years; but its good-natured candor was the 
despair of small-fry politicians and of all who had 
anything constituting legitimate news which they 
wished to conceal. 

While not changing the general character of the 
Gazette as a secular newspaper, Horton frequently 
expressed in its editorial columns his views on re- 
ligious and social questions. These articles were 
widely read and criticised, especially by denomina- 
tional papers. The editor of the Gazette was fre- 
quently given pointed suggestions to the effect that 
the shoemaker should stick to his last, and that re- 
ligious questions should be settled by those who had 
made a study of religion, and not by laymen. 

The week following Horton’s address to the con- 
gregation of Rev. David Winter this item appeared in 
the Presbyterian Signal: 

^‘We are credibly informed that the evangelist or 
reformer, or whatever he would like to be called, 
who last Sabbath fllled the pulpit (?) of Rev. (?) 
David Winter, and who is advertised to address the 


OLD FEIENDS MEET 


273 


people at Workingmen’s Hall next Tuesday evening, 
is in reality an ex-convict of a western penitentiary. 
The people who attended the meeting, and especially 
the members of the Presbyterian church who went 
there, may well ask themselves whether this is the 
kind of person from whom they can get instruction 
in religious matters.” 

When on the next Tuesday evening Horton ap- 
peared at Workingmen’s Hall, he addressed the as- 
sembly with the same quiet earnestness which always 
characterized him. 

At the close of his address he read the above ex- 
tract from the Signal, and said: 

'^This has been handed to me with a request that 
I deny it. I cannot deny it, for it is true. I did 
serve something more than six months in the Colo- 
rado penitentiary. I was not guilty, however, and 1 
was pardoned on the ground of my innocence. I do 
not care further to go into this matter.” 

^^What was your number at the penitentiary?” 
called out a voice at the back of the hall. 

There were some cries of ‘Tut him out!” and 
“Order!” but Horton raised bis hand and said, quiet- 
ly, “I was number 3708.” 

“I guess you won’t put me out — not right now,” 
said the man who had asked the question, pushing 
his way toward the platform. “I’ve got a few words 
to say, myself.” 


274 


THE LARGER FAITH 


He was attempting to talk from the floor in front 
of the platform when cries of “Platform! Platform!” 
stopped him. Mounting the platform, he said: “For 
four years Pve been hunting the man that was No. 
3708 in the Colorado penitentiary. For he went 
there on my account. It was this way: I was in a 
saloon drinking. I got into a quarrel. The man I 
was quarreling with reached for a gun. I shot him. 
It was a question of kill him or get killed. Still, 
I’m sorry I ever killed a man. But it isn’t on my 
own account I’m here. I’ve hunted four years for 
No. 3708. I just got here to-night, on my way 
home. I heard Frank Horton was to speak, and I 
used to know him. He was an old friend of mine. 
If he was No. 3708 he served time for me — ^trying 
to shield me. I saw somebody come into the saloon 
while I was having the quarrel, but I didn’t see who 
it was. I suppose he recognized me. I ran away, 
not because I was afraid of a trial, but because I was 
afraid of being lynched by the Buck Brady gang. 
They were running that town then, and the man I 
shot was one of them. When Frank Horton let 
them flx the shooting on him rather than tell on me, 
he took chances on his life, and pretty long chances. 
When he let them send him to the penitentiary with- 
out saying a word — for I heard how the man acted 
though I couldn’t find out who he was — ^it amounted 
to his giving up his life for me. I reckon that’s 


OLD FRIENDS MEET 


275 


about as much as one man can do for another. I 
didn^t hear for several months that some man had 
been convicted and sent up for the shooting that I’d 
done. As soon as I did hear it I went to the gov- 
ernor of the State, told him the facts and surrendered 
myself. When the authorities investigated the mat- 
ter they were satisfied that I acted in self-defense, 
and turned me loose without a trial. The governor 
had pardoned the man that was sent up in my place, 
and the man had disappeared. I ought to have rec- 
ognized the description I got of him; but I never 
thought of Frank Horton being in the west. I 
thought all the time it must be somebody Fd met up 
with out there. How you have the facts about Frank 
Horton being in the penitentiary.’’ 

A ripple of applause went over the audience, 
after which Dick added: ‘‘My name is Briggs. 

I live here in Ohio — up at E . I’m not posing 

as a bad man. I don’t carry a gun or drink whisky 
any more. But if anybody ever refers to Frank Hor- 
ton as an ex-convict in my presence — there’ll some- 
thing happen.” 

This was the first time Dick Briggs had ever at- 
tempted to address an audience. His manner was 
free from any attempt at oratorical effect, but his 
evident sincerity and earnestness took the place of 
eloquence, if indeed it was not eloquence. There was 
nothing boastful or belligerent in his words or man- 


276 


THE LARGER FAITH 


ner; but when he said, '^there’ll something happen,’^ 
every person who heard him believed him. 

Again there was applause, followed by cries of 
‘‘Horton!” “Horton!” which were kept up till the 
entire audience seemed to be yelling for Horton. 

When Horton finally stepped forward he was given 
a reception which would have made glad the heart of 
a politician. He stood there for full two minutes, 
waiting for the handclapping and cheers to subside. 
Then he raised his hand in token of silence, and 
when he could make himself heard, said: 

“My friends, what my friend Briggs has told you 
is the truth; only he attaches an undue weight to my 
action. The fact is, my life at that time was unim- 
portant and not valuable. Besides, my action re- 
sulted in what was probably as great a benefit to me 
as to him, so we are even on that score. And now let 
us drop the matter. The editor of the Signal was 
only tr3dng to warn its readers against being led 
astray by what he regards as false doctrines.” 

It was all well enough for Horton to talk of drop- 
ping the matter; but the newspapers got hold of it. 
Some of them soon revived the story of his rescue in 
the runaway by Dick Briggs, and gave that as a rea- 
son for Horton’s action in letting himself be sent to 
the penitentiary. For a while both Horton and Dick 
were given much more notoriety than they wanted. 
The matter quieted down, however, after a time; but 


OLD FEIENDS MEET 


277 


Horton^s audiences for some time showed a disposi- 
tion to lionize him as a man who had offered his life 
for a friend. 

Although he was not again directly attacked as 
being an ex-convict, his heretical addresses drew 
forth much adverse comment from orthodox period- 
icals. He was charged with blasphemy. One paper 
stated that he claimed to be equal to God. Another 
contained a scathing editorial on the disorganizing 
tendencies of his addresses, and urged all church 
members to avoid his meetings as they would a pesti- 
lence. 

The preachers began to notice him in their ser- 
mons. What seemed most to disturb them was that 
a man who had not taken a course at any theological 
institution should presume to talk to the people about 
God and about spirituality. 

To all suggestions that he answer his critics Horton 
turned a deaf ear. He kept on in the even tenor of 
his way; and still the people went to hear him. He 
did once say in the course of an address: 

^^Each of us is constructed differently from all 
others. Each person is unique. What is true to me 
is not necessarily true to you. It is well for i:3 as 
we go along, I think, to bear in mind that no one of 
us has a monopoly on God, or on the truth.^’ 

He was not at all disturbed by what was said of 
him. He felt that by his mistaken actions he had 


278 


THE LARGER FAITH 


made his own schooling much more severe than it 
need have been. Still, he dismissed all regrets for 
the past as useless, and lived in perfect peace of mind, 
fully believing and acting on the statement contained 
in Corinne’s telegram: ‘‘The present and the future 
are enough.” 

Besides many requests for lectures and addresses, 
Horton received a large mail from people he had 
never met, the sentiments of the writers ranging from 
warm admiration and indorsement to bitter denun- 
ciation. Letters of the former class were signed 
with the names of the writers; those of the other kind 
were usually signed only with initials or were wholly 
anonymous. 

Occasionally Horton replied through the columns 
of the Gazette to a communication seeming to call 
for such treatment. Here is a single example: 

“To the Gazette: In a published account of a 
lecture delivered by the editor of the Gazette I notice 
he seems to hold that neither a man’s belief nor his 
conduct makes any difference to God; in other words, 
that God does not care what a man believes or dis- 
believes, what he does or fails to do. 

“Is such teaching as this defensible from any point 
of view? Is it not demoralizing in its tendency? 

“H. M. W.” 

The Gazette published the letter with the follow'- 
ing reply: 


OLD FRIENDS MEET 


279 


^‘While what our correspondent refers to as a lec- 
ture was in fact an informal talk, it expressed, as far 
as it went, what the editor regards as the truth; and 
we do not believe the truth on any subject to be 
either indefensible or demoralizing. Man’s belief 
and his conduct affect himself, and may affect other 
persons; they do not affect God. 

^^We think there is no subject more sacred than 
man; for every man has in him something of God, 
and is in that sense a part of God. Still, we think 
it is the height of presumption in man to imagine 
that his belief or lack of belief, or even his conduct, 
can excite the admiration or arouse the wrath of the 
Infinite. 


CHAPTEE XXV. 


THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN. 

In the month of May there was a double wedding 
at the home of Dr. and Mrs. Eoberts, on which occa^ 
si on their daughter Corinne became Mrs. Frank Hor- 
ton, and John W. Darrell and Maude Briggs became 
man and wife, the Eev. David Winter being the offi- 
ciating clergyman. This programme had been 
agreed upon after sundry conferences and consulta- 
tions among the interested parties. 

As this was several years ago, any attempted de- 
scription of the dress or appearance of the brides 
or bridegrooms would be very much out of date. 
They seemed to be satisfied with each other: and 
that being the case, we and the rest of the world 
ought to be satisfied also. 

Frank Horton is still editor of the Gazette, and 
has many more calls made on him for lectures and 
addresses than he can fill. He and his wife pass a 
part of every summer at the ranch in Hew Mexico. 
There is a youngster four years of age who makes his 
home with them. Corinne insisted on giving him 


THE PALL OF THE CUKTAIH 281 

the name of Frank; and when a middle name was 
being talked of, J ohn Darrell suggested that it ought 
to be Young. The suggestion was adopted, but it 
had one unlooked-for result, that of reversing the 
order of the lad’s given names. He is universally 
spoken of as Young Frank Horton, and even his 
parents have fallen into the way of calling hirti 
Young instead of Frank. 

From the time of their first summer spent at the 
ranch Corinne rivaled — if, indeed, she did not super- 
sede — her husband in popularity with the cow-boys. 
She seemed intuitively to understand them; and her 
liking for them on account of the way they treated 
her husband prompted ‘her to try to make them al- 
ways feel at home when they called. They think 
there is no woman like “Young’s wife — Mrs. Hor- 
ton”; for while they always address her as Mrs. Hor- 
ton, they steadily refuse to call her husband anything 
but Young. Horton takes this good-naturedly and 
answers to the name of Young while at the ranch. 
One of the cow-boys once remarked when speaking of 
the matter: “We don’t care what his name is in the 
States; Young’s good enough for us.” Still, when 
speaking among themselves, they always refer to 
Corinne as “Young’s wife — Mrs. Horton.” 

The first summer of their stay at the ranch Horton 
found it necessary to build an addition to his cabin to 
accommodate his guests, not only from the east but 


282 


THE LARGER FAITH 


from the surrounding country; for the people of that 
section of the country showed a disposition to make 
the ranch a favorite visiting place. 

On arriving at the ranch the second summer after 
their marriage, Horton and his wife found set up in 
the sitting-room a new piano. 

Upon inquiry, Ned Long stated that a few days 
before Bill Doolin and two or three other men had 
appeared there with the piano on a wagon, and asked 
if they might store it in the house till they called 
for it. 

AVhen later Horton spoke to Doolin about it, the 
latter gravely asserted that it was a great accommoda- 
tion to him and others, not specified, to be allowed 
to store the instrument there; that of course they’d 
take it away any time it was in the road; but in the 
meantime they wanted Mrs. Horton to make use of it. 
Since then hardly a day passes, when Horton and his 
wife are at the ranch, without a visit from cow-boys, 
who alwa3^s want to hear Mrs. Horton play and sing, 
and who are always gratified. They freely express 
the opinion that it beats the music at any show they 
ever attended. 

When Young Frank Horton was three years old 
some cowboys appeared at the ranch one day, leading 
a Shetland pony a little bigger than a good-sized 
sheep, having on it a bridle and miniature cow-boy’s 


THE FALL OF THE CUETAIN 


283 


saddle of the finest make. To the pommel of the 
saddle was hung a small horse-hair lariat. 

^‘This is for Young Horton,” said the spokesman, 
presenting the pony to Horton. 

“Say, hoys!” replied Horton, “aren’t you piling 
this on a little thick?” 

“That’s all right. Young,” said the spokesman. 
“You’re gettin’ to be a pretty old man, yourself. 
We’re expectin’ to have the kid with us when you’re 
gone!” 

With which reassuring statement Horton was com- 
pelled to accept the gift on behalf of his son. 

J ohn Darrell and his wife have two children, both 
of whom, their father says, have their mother’s tem- 
per. It doesn’t seem to be a very bad sort of temper, 
however, for a happier family than they all make to- 
gether would be hard to find. It is a time of espe- 
cial jubilation with them all when they go to New 
Mexico to spend a month or two at Uncle Frank’s 
ranch. There Maude Darrell is looked upon as the 
second best pianist and singer America has produced, 
“Young’s wife — Mrs. Horton” being regarded as the 
prima donna. 

Darrell’s doubts on matters touching religion have 
long since disappeared. He is happy and contented 
in what his friend and teacher, Frank Horton, terms 
the larger faith. He and his friend North are two of 
the pillars in the independent church of the Bev. 


THE LARGER FAITH 


David Winter. After meeting for a year or two in 
the theater, this congregation erected a building of 
their own. The church, though large, was not a 
very costly one; and it was fully paid for before the 
first service was held in it. They still persist in the 
unorthodox practice of taking up no collections at 
their services; and yet they seem to prosper. 

The Gazette has for business manager Mr. Eichard 
T. Briggs. Though not quite so belligerent as for- 
merly, Dick is still ready to ^^strike where wrong de- 
fies.” He has lost something of his youthful im- 
petuosity, but none of his loyalty. He is a bachelor, 
and doesn’t know which he likes best, Maude’s chil- 
dren or Young Horton. They all call him Uncle 
Dick, and think almost as much of him as of their 
parents. 

Bob Thompson still fills his office of Bishop with 
dignity, and, it is believed, with much benefit to the 
people of his diocese. It has become customary 
among the cow-boys and cattlemen to refer to him for 
adjudication many disputes which formerly were set- 
tled in another way; and in deciding the matters sub- 
mitted to him, often nice and difficult questions, he 
has shown such fairness, sagacity and rare common 
sense that his word has come to be authority. Any 
disposition to oppose what the Bishop says is prompt- 
ly frowned down. Bill Doolin, Sam McChesney and 
other leading lights among the cow-boys are staunch 


THE FALL OF THE CUKTAIH 


285 


supporters of Bishop BoVs ecclesiastical authority; 
and when on rare occasions it is questioned, Sam gets 
to smiling too blandly for the comfort of any would- 
be recalcitrants. 

Even the reader would not recognize Ned Long. 
Seeing that erect carriage, gazing into those clear 
eyes, it would he hard to believe that he had ever in 
his life been afraid. Eumor says he makes frequent 
trips to the house of a ranchman twenty miles dis- 
tant. The ranchman, by the way, has a nineteen- 
year-old daughter who plays on the piano and sings. 

If Whitefoot were the favorite saddle-horse of a 
millionaire he could not be given more care and at- 
tention than Ned bestows on him. Once, after re- 
turning from a visit to the ranchman’s house, Ned, 
as he patted the horse’s glossy neck, might have been 
heard to say to him: “It was you that got me into 
all this, old fellow!” 

Before sleeping that night Ned wrote to Frank 
Horton an unusually long letter, which he mailed the 
next day. 

Three days later there flashed westward over the 
wires the following message: 

“To Edward Long, Tres Piedras, New Mexico: 

“Hearty commendation. Letter. The one reality of 
life is love. Frank Horton.” 


THE END. 












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